


Whatever It Takes

by TheWriteType



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Magic, Original Characters - Freeform, Stiles-centric, Tags May Change, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-15 19:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 80,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11813124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWriteType/pseuds/TheWriteType
Summary: Stiles gets a chance to fix everything. Of course, he's taking it.





	1. Chapter 1

Feet pounding through the forest, his heart beating faster than his legs could go. A hand over the red, gaping grin marring his torso. Apply pressure. That’s what Melissa told him and Scott when they started learning First Aid. The fire is spreading all around him, and everyone in his Pack is gone.

Dead. Slaughtered.

He was the only one left, and he was dying. Tears are falling but he can’t notice them when the fresh hell he’d witnessed is still jumping around in his brain. He hasn’t taken his Adderall in weeks. 

Time spent on being hungry, eating, sleeping, resting.

There hasn’t been enough. 

Unbidden, his mind’s eye calls forth the image of Scott’s body, a shock baton stabbed through his heart. Body still twitching despite the dead, red eyes that looked at nothing and no one.

Isaac. The blond, cherubic curls matted in red. A hint of bone and matter peaking through, where it shouldn’t. 

Lydia. Her face frozen in a scream. The first thing they took from her were her vocal cords, and they finished her off with a needle through her head. 

Jackson. Left alone. An omega so close to being a beta with a Pack to belong to. Cut in half. 

Erica and Boyd. Hard to separate one from the other. Dying from a deep clawing, holding a dead body haloed by long blond curls. 

Dad. They said it was a career hazard. A neat hole in the center of his badge. 

Melissa. She doesn't know. The hospital flooded with incoming patients. 

Deaton’s office. Everything turned over, glass shards and dried blood mixed with ashes. 

Peter. Went back to-

Derek, pushed him out of the way. An arrow missing its target found a different heart to hit. Wide, green eyes with a speckle of hazel and grey. “Stiles, run.” Black liquid disturbing a soft, gruff tenor. 

He runs faster. 

But there’s nowhere, only, his feet led him where some of his worst nightmares started. His knees are weak. His legs like jelly. He slumps over the stump and prays to anybody and anything. Hopes that the powers that be don’t only exist in a TV show about a hot sixteen-year old who can kill vampires. It hurts to laugh and cry at the same time.

“Please. Please.” Desperate.

Then he remembers the book, it wasn’t a book of shadows but close enough. 

Blood, check. Magic, Spark, whatever, check. Nemeton, check.

He closes his eyes and counts his breath. Concentrates on the feeling of his life leaking out of him, the rough bark of the roots digging into his knees. He can feel it starting, but he doesn’t have enough life force left to supply it. 

A hiccuping breath. A sob. He’s not enough.

A voice interrupts. “If we help you do this, you must right the wrongs which culminated to this day.”

Doe eyes, opened wide and searching. “Who-wha-”

“Your price will be painful. Every memory you have, you will keep. Your life changed from what you’ve known. And there will be no more chances after this. Do you accept?”

Reflexively, he swallows the blood gathered in his mouth. “Yes, I’ll do it. Whatever it takes.”

Stiles dies on a tree stump in the woods. Alone, but for the green fireflies surrounding him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a brave, new world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks so much for all the wonderful comments, the kudos, the bookmarks, and the hits! Really hope you all enjoy the second chapter. My updating/posting habits aren't on a set schedule, so yeah  
> \--- you've been warned. (Still wanna take this trip with me as the driver?)
> 
>  Also, I imagined Claudia Stilinski being played by Eliza Dushku. So, feel free to do with that what you will. *shrugs*

On May 21, 1989, Deputy John Stilinski was called about his wife Claudia, who’d been in labor for seven hours, and while he was a little late, finally their son is born. 

After exiting the womb, the baby boy screams to show off his strong, functional lungs but stops the second he is cradled in his mother’s arms. While placental fluid and after birth have been cleaned off, the baby’s eyes are squinted, almost in confusion until subtle recognition passes across baby blue-darkening to honey, brown. Then the screams start anew, and a small fist clutches at his mother’s finger. 

In awe of the child, Claudia declares in a tired and firm voice: “Szczepan Anastazja Stilinski.”

John both smiles and winces at the name of his newborn son, carefully stepping closer. He kisses his wife on the forehead, the cheek, and the lips, unable to hide his misty eyes.

“He’s beautiful, Dia.” Tentative, he reaches out his own hand towards his son, and his heart lodges itself in his throat when a small hand captures his finger. “Hey, there son. You’ve been born less than a minute, and already, we love you with everything we’ve got.”

Claudia smiles at her husband’s words and repeats the statement in Polish.

At his wife’s native tongue, he turns to her, curious. “Where did his name come from?”

A raised brow. “You don’t like it.”

Catching himself before he could inadvertently pull from the grip on his finger, he shakes his head. “I love it! Don’t get me wrong. I’m just wondering since-”

“Since it's not a name that's easy to live with? I know, but the name felt right the second I looked at him.” She smiles at her darling boy. “Szczepan Anastazja.”

John repeats the name in practice. “Szczepan Anastazja. Can’t say he won't grow up tough.”

 

****

 

Seven-months old and already a champion bottom-shuffler, Szczepan’s first word (sound) was: “Mama.”  

John was at work, and by the time he came back, he found his wife kneeling on the floor in front of their son. Seeing the tears streaming down her face, fear set in and had him hasten to her.

“Claudia! What-“

“Da.” Chirruped a small voice.  

John’s eyes nearly bugged out of his face in surprise. His breath caught in his throat, resulting in a small coughing fit. When he looked back at his wife, he saw that those tears weren’t sad or scared, they were joyful and wondering. All for the wriggling baby wearing a giant gummy-smile, if not for the first two teeth at the top front of his mouth. 

Szczepan giggled at the sounds he made, and shuffled closer on uncoordinated limbs. Suddenly, his demeanor changed from happy to worried at the extended silence of both his parents. A bumble of questioning sounds escaped him, before his eyes began to tear up as he gazed up at them. 

Claudia recovered first -the tears not stopping their descent- she bent down and held her precious boy, finding comfort in the clean, baby, and petrichor-like scent that was always present in her child. 

“My little genius!” Claudia smiles widely at Szeczepan and kisses him on the forehead and chin for blessings. “Isn’t he amazing, John?”

His coughing fit long past, John fights his own tears and grins shakily, overcome. “Yeah. Yeah, he is.” 

As time goes on, John and Claudia observe how Szczepan can bounce from high levels of energy to moments of total silence in the span of a few hours, sometimes minutes. In his earlier months, they noticed how his sleeping patterns were somewhat restless and that depriving him of any soft, body pillows, or fluffy toys would leave him crying silently into the night.

The first time they saw it, John had happened to wake up in need of a bathroom break, so he decided to check-in on the baby on his way back. Since all was fairly quiet, he was about to leave when he heard a muted sniffle. Approaching the crib, his heart broke at seeing their baby suffering so quietly. Gently placing a hand under the baby’s prostrate form, John holds Szczepan in his arms and places his head against his beating heart, audible through the cotton of his sleep-rumpled shirt. 

“Shh. It’s okay. Dad’s here, Szczepan.” 

As the crying gradually stopped, John returned Szczepan to his crib, but decided to stay in the room and didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. 

Claudia woke up to John’s alarm and an empty bed. By the time she opened the door to Szczepan’s room, she found her man passed out on the floor and her boy wide awake, gumming at his fist. Patting her husband’s chest to wake him, she calls out: “John?” At the blearily opening eyes and growing recognition on his face, she continues: “What are you doing sleeping on the floor? Did I miss hearing the baby cry?” 

Stretching his arms and fixing the crick in his back from lying on the floor, there was an audible pop followed by a heavy exhale. “That’s kinda why I’m down here.” He sits up. One hand grips the back of his neck where a knot has started to form, while the other fits fingers through the gaps in the crib, letting a much smaller hand hold tight. He looks back at his wife and doesn’t hide the worry in his eyes, “I was just checking up on him, and he was having… A nightmare? I think?” A calloused hand moves from neck to temple, kneading. “He was crying and thrashing, but like, he kept it in. Was so quiet, I almost missed it.” 

“Oh, John.” She fits her own fingers through the spaces in the crib, and smiles sadly at the grip on her pinky.

“Dia, what if I hadn’t stopped by?” John always imagines the worst scenario because it helps him plan things out, either to catch the perp or help the victim. Getting ready for the worst, makes every other situation easier, but for this? He feels like the worst thing that could happen might just be waiting around the corner, and he can’t see it coming. 

By the time Szczepan reached two-years, every baby book they’d read told them about the “terrible two’s.” But all the screaming, the tantrums, and outbursts they’d anticipated never showed up. There was definitely a lot of energetic bouncing around, exploring, and every question entering and exiting from mind to mouth, no filter attached. He’d put things in his mouth like any curious kid, but he didn’t have to be told ‘no’ more than once before he’d stop. It got to the point where John and Claudia had to make sure Szczepan knew that if he ever felt like something was too much; or if he got mad, sad, or happy, it was okay to scream, to shout, and let it all out. 

Now, four-years old, Szczepan’s parents have brought him to a child psychiatrist recommended by their pediatrician. 

Said psychiatrist was dressed sharply in a dark blue suit, shined black flats, and hair curled and coiffed with not a strand out of place. The smile she greeted the small family of three did not reach her eyes but was decorated with matte red lipstick and bleached, white teeth. They don’t miss her eyes assessing their clothing and dismissing them. 

At the sight, Szczepan stared back defiantly and seemed to stand taller, ready for a fight. 

John was uncomfortable and his brows furrowed in disbelief, his face expressing: _Seriously?_ To his wife, he turned the same look, and she only answered with raised brows and an assurance that she wasn’t leaving until they got what they came for. But the small voice in her warned to keep an eye on the stranger, ready to protect her boys. 

The psychiatrist, her plaque reading: Dr. DeVere, maintained her smile. “Mr. And Mrs. Stilinski.” Her eyes turned to the little boy. “And this must be-“ she glances to a file and her eyebrows rise. Just as she opens her mouth to attempt, a voice interrupts.

“Stiles.” The little boy rolls his eyes and stands with arms crossed. Looking imperious in jeans and a graphic tee. 

John fights the strong urge to grin, so he hides it with a short cough behind a curled fist.

Claudia has no compunctions and simply smiles at her little boy with a fond shake of her head. 

“Stiles.” DeVere repeats and gestures to the couch. “Please, sit.” 

Without prompting Stiles moves to the middle of the couch, leaving his parents the space to bracket him on each side. He sits on his hands and starts swinging his feet, showing no interest in the psychiatrist. 

DeVere turns her attention to the parents. “What can I help you with today?” 

John looks to his wife, met with a supportive smile. “Ugh, our pediatrician referred us to you, so...” 

Claudia elbows her husband’s side with a reproving and amused quirk of her lips. “What my husband means to say, is that, when we talked to our pediatrician about Stiles’ hyperactivity, he mentioned the possibility that Stiles might have ADHD. But when we mentioned the recurring nightmares-“

“ADHD can be managed with Adderall or Ritalin, and nightmares, themselves, are not uncommon occurrences.” 

“Yes, so we’ve been told. But are nightmares supposed to happen daily to a four-year old? And about the ADHD, we’re still not totally sold on the idea. Stiles is highly intelligent, and yes, his mind might wander sometimes, but that’s not out of place for growing children.”

At Claudia’s increasing agitation, DeVere soothes her tone causing the opposite of her intended effect. “In regards to the medication, as a clinical psychiatrist, I can only diagnose and prescribe treatments. It is up to you and Mr. Stilinski, until Stiles comes of age, to decide whether or not he should undergo them.” Acknowledging the grudging nod from the Stilinskis, she taps her pen on the files and continues: “As for the nightmares… Based on your description, they could be chronic nightmares. Usually diagnosed to those who experienced situations with the consequence of post-traumatic stress disorder, a severe anxiety disorder, violent assaults, accidents, natural disasters, and other terrifying ordeals. The youngest age was around four or five, but the more popular cases were children raised in the time and place of the Holocaust.”

DeVere pauses to let the astonished parents digest, while she keeps a closer eye on Stiles’ reaction, who’s stopped swinging his legs. 

Amber meets dark wood. 

Too busy to notice the staring contest, John and Claudia were experiencing their own sense of distraught confusion. 

John. “But- Post traumatic stress? Stiles hasn’t been in any traumatic situations.”

Claudia. “Chronic nightmares? So if it’s got a name, what are the treatments?” She grips her hands tight, until a smaller one squeezes them in reassurance.

John brings a hand up to rest on his son’s soft hair.

DeVere observes all of this closely, and comes to a decision. “You have a few options. One is undergoing therapy, such as privately discussing the contents of the nightmare and where they might originate. Another would be imbibing prazosin, a medication usually prescribed for high blood pressure, which has been known to alleviate chronic nightmares for those with post traumatic stress disorder. Although, if you do choose the medication route, I would not recommend putting Stiles on Adderall with the possibility of negative drug interactions.”

John, roughly brushes a hand through his hair. “That’s _all_ our options?”

“Those are the treatments that have undergone approved clinical studies.” 

A contemplative silence overcomes the office, broken by Stiles jumping off of the couch to stand. The boy turns his wide eyes to his overwhelmed parents. 

“It’s up to me, right?” 

At the serious look on Stiles’ face, the parents look to one another arriving to the same conclusion. 

Claudia answers, “Of course, _kochanie_.” 

John sports a supportive smile and nods. 

Decisively, Stiles nods back. He keeps his eyes on his parents. “I don’t want pills. A-And I’ll do the first thing. I’ll talk about them, but not with her.” Turning to DeVere, he says without inflection. “No offense.”

DeVere doesn’t bat an eye at the statement, and when she looks back at the parents, she sees that they are of the same mind set. “That’s fine, Stiles. If you’d like, I could offer you a referral.”

Fully turned, his arms fold across his chest. “Are they like you?”

Involuntarily, the edges of DeVere’s mouth edge up a bit at the boy’s insouciance, impressed. “They mentored me during my residency, but it was only for a few months. We ended up disagreeing on a few things.” She tilts her head as if to say: ‘you’re move’. 

Stiles bites his lip. Making sure his parents were still giving him the reins, his face becomes resolute. “Okay.”

“Okay.” For the first time since they entered the office, Dr. DeVere offers the nuclear family a small but sincere smile. 

 

****

 

Sometimes, he’d forget to act his age. His dreams were a mess, but he knew enough that if he started screaming every time he had one, his parents would be hurting. Whenever he looked around the house or the yard, he kept looking for what was familiar in the dreams, but there was nothing. He knew better than to act out too much, but he let enough out that his pediatrician diagnosed him with ADHD just like the first time, except he didn’t need or want the Adderall to focus. He socialized fine with the other kids, but he wasn’t looking for any best friends, not like Scotty or the others. By the time he was four, he understood that his nightmares weren’t nightmares at all, they were memories. 

The first psychiatrist was a bust from the get-go; he could tell. She was professional, but severe, just like her name. The second one was different, just like the first psych-doctor said. But he wanted someone who could really understand, so for the first time in a while, he used his Spark.  

His mom had brought him to the public library, where he gathered up the yellow pages for the San Francisco and northern California area. He didn’t miss the Beacon Hills listings, that’s for sure. Making sure the coast was clear, he spread the books out and opened them. Reaching out his right hand, fingers spread, he closed his eyes and believed. Even when the silence kept going, he believed and believed and believed, in the hopes that his powers might do as he consciously asked. Finally, he heard the rustling of turned pages until they stopped. He opened his eyes and looked through the lists. The only name that popped out at him was a ‘Dr. Mandalei Jelen’. 

“Is that your psychiatrist?” Like a deer in headlights, he stopped and looked at his mom, who was standing at the only entrance to his little corner. His jaw dropped. 

Claudia smirked at her son and tapped his chin. 

“Mama?” 

“Yes, Szczepan?”  

“Wha-how?”

She tutted at him fondly, and sat down on the floor before him. “Now, Szczepan, I’m your mother. It’s not hard to miss when certain things that were placed elsewhere suddenly appear in places they shouldn't,” amused, “or that one time your pacifier went flying across the room.”

Stiles, mortified. “Oh.” He looks down, then glances back up at his mom through his lashes. “Are you mad?”

True to any loving mother’s response, Claudia simply leaned forward to kiss her boy’s forehead. “Oh, gwiazdko. Of course not.” Whispering, she says: “Actually, my grandmother —your great grandmother— could do things like that too. It’s in the family, but the generations who inherit don't really show a set pattern. We just figured, magic will be magic.” 

Scrunching his face in confusion, he pauses and thinks about the implications. His face clearing at another thought, he asks: “Does dad know?” 

Claudia, abashed, answers honestly. “No. But we can tell him, and I know he’ll still love you the same.” 

He reaches a hand out, worrying his lip and not hiding his fear. “Promise?”

“I promise.” She reaches her hand out, but snags Stiles’ pinky finger instead. 

At the gesture, Stiles can’t help but smile back. 

Stiles now has a handful of months left before he has to start kindergarten, and he’s currently sitting in a comfy chair across from Dr. Jelen, “Call me Mandalei.”

It’s only been a few minutes, but he still hasn’t said anything.

“Szczepan.” Mandalei starts.

“Wow.” It never stops amazing him that someone other than his parents can get his name right. “Uh, really, just Stiles is fine.” He looks around the office once more, appreciating the earth tones, the atmosphere of safety, and can’t help but look back at a jar that he knows houses mountain ash. He can even smell the anise seed in another jar on the psychiatrist’s desk. 

Mandalei smiles, and he can tell she’s a grandmother with how soft the wrinkles around her face have become. “Stiles, then. Are you excited to start kindergarten this fall?”

Stiles shrugs. “Sure.” At her raised, inquisitive brow, he corrects: “I- I don’t hate it.”

“Hmm… Is it because you had to move or…?”

“No, the moving isn’t a problem.” He knows what she wants him to say, and he knows that the first step to healing is actually talking about it. But. “I mean, I get to be closer to you, right?” He sends her a cheeky grin, despite knowing that it falls short at hiding his insecurities. Psychiatrists, what are ya gonna do.  

Mandalei's face turns sad for this boy, who she knows carries a darkness in his heart, invisible battle scars adorning him. “Well, Stiles, we’ve got forty-minutes left. So we’ll talk about whatever you feel like.”

He nods, and without hesitating, moves the container of anise seed closer to him, hands free. His control still isn't the best, so it's a miracle that the stuff inside didn't end up flung on the floor. This was their fourth session, and this time his parents were just waiting outside the door. Call it his magic, his Spark, his gut feeling, but he knew she wasn’t bad. 

The old, yet youthful psychiatrist widens her eyes in surprise and simply laughs at the boy’s antics. “Alright. Is this what today’s session will cover?”

Stiles smiles back. “Yeah. Can you teach me some stuff?”

“How about, we call your parents back to discuss some details about this.” She gestured to the anise seed and puts it back in its original placement without any contact. “But. I must insist, this is the only time we’ll be using your session on this topic. We can set other times in another, more appropriate location for these particular lessons. This is supposed to be your therapy hour, after all.” 

At the no-nonsense eyebrow raised at him, Stiles nods with a close-mouthed smile. “You got it, doc.”

Mandalei stands up and opens the door to gesture the rest of the Stilinskis in. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolves.

* * *

 

Kindergarten wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be, and being in the familiar house was its own confused riot of emotions. The other kids weren’t terrible, and despite knowing what year it was, he couldn’t help but look for a cubby with the surname ‘McCall’ on any one of the butterfly name tags.

He’s four-years old, and the year is 1993— twenty-four months before he was born the first time. The revelation being a huge mind-fuck to his already jittery emotions had him walking to the backyard in their fenced off garden. That’s where his dad found him, sitting amongst the dandelions, causing one of the flowers to transition back and forth from a fuzzy, seed dispersal state to a dried out husk.

“Stiles? Something wrong, bud?” John crouches down next to his child, also watching the aging and de-aging dandelion.

Stiles stops staring at the lone dandelion, causing it to dry out, thus allowing the spores to break free at a sudden strong gust of wind. He turns back to his dad, and he wants to tell him. But what if he’s not supposed to? What if, whatever helped do this, might bring some kind of backlash because he wasn’t supposed to be born yet. And how can you say that to your parents? Never mind that they accepted him and his magic. This was a whole new level of something that Stiles had no idea how to even break down. He settles for:

“Kinda nervous.” 

None the wiser, John accepts the answer. “It’s okay to be nervous. First day of school. I’d imagine the other kids are nervous too.”

Stiles sighs. “Yeah…”

“But that’s not all, right?” 

Stiles’ posture sags even more, and so do the flowers. 

“Aww, kid.” Rather than pushing for more details, John brings an arm around his son and squeezes him just enough to be comfortably close but not overbearing. “How about you help me with dinner? That way we can surprise your mom with a treat after a probably long day looking for work.” It was early on that both of Stiles’ parents noticed his tendencies to be bribed or to treat people with food whenever he felt down. When John and Claudia let Stiles feed them, the day ended with big smiles and laughter for the family of three. “Come on, I know it’s just the thing to bring your spirits up.” 

Stiles guiltily follows his dad back to the kitchen. 

But as it turns out, neither Stiles nor his parents had to worry about the first day of school. 

Despite being a year younger than all his classmates, Stiles got along fine with the other kids. After the first initial introduction, he told the whole class to just “Call me Stiles.” Although it did help that both his parents had a chance to talk to the school faculty about how to address him. Even when he ended up needing to write out his real name for assignments, he just ignored the whispers:

“Weird name.” 

“Zeezeepan?” 

“Isn't his middle name a girl’s name? It's a Disney princess movie.” 

But he did appreciate the rebuttals from his ‘friends,’ privately he calls them acquaintances but what normal four-year old can use that word correctly. 

“His name isn’t weird. It's cool.”

“Yeah!”

“You guys’re jealous.” 

And cue the flashing of tongues and distorted faces. 

Meanwhile, Stiles just smiled back at his ‘friends’ and paid no mind to the haters. And if a few of the latter’s things like favorite pencils or erasers ended up scattered around the room; well, his control isn't that great, yet. 

 

****

 

In the middle of his  kindergarten year, things get a little shaken up with the introduction of a new student.

_‘Huh, so that’s what he looks like as a munchkin,’_ he thought. Though, it really goes without saying that Stiles is also in the same munchkin status.

The eyebrows were unmistakable, but the round face, chubby cheeks, and bunny teeth were a surprise. 

_‘It's kinda weird that he’s got no scruff or beard, or was it a scruffy beard?’_

As Stiles was lost in his train of thought, he missed the teacher’s introduction along with said teacher calling his name.

“Stiles.” Said the teacher, gently chiding.

With an abrupt shake, he whipped his head up so quickly, the teacher would have worried for whiplash if he was not used to seeing the reaction from Stiles. 

“Wha-! Uh, yeah? Sorry.” Stiles nervously brushes his hair back and bites his lip.

The teacher smiles genially. “That’s alright. I was just saying how Derek here will be sitting in the seat next to you, and it’d be really great if you could help him out with getting used to things. Okay, Stiles?” 

“Yeah. Sure, teach.” He offers up a dimpled smile, unknowingly dissipating any lingering nervousness within the new student through his easy going character.

When Derek, dressed in a green polo and jeans, arrives at his new seat, he takes initiative to greet the doe-eyed boy with dimples and spots on his face. 

“Hi, my name’s Derek.” He offers out his hand.

Stiles turns to the other boy and looks at the hand, before grasping and shaking once, a quick and barely there motion. “Call me Stiles.” And with that greeting, Stiles turns back to his desk and starts sketching in his notebook, not really needing to pay close attention to the lesson. 

Wondering if he’d somehow insulted the other boy within a span of less than a minute, Derek nervously turns back to his own notes and quietly berates himself, his shoulders hunching and looking forward at the board. 

Silently cursing at himself, Stiles surreptitiously glances at the other and feels terrible for acting like such a jackass. 

‘ _Fuc-fudge it. What’s it gonna hurt to at least be a decent person to the guy.’_

Whispering. “Hey, Derek.” Catching the boy’s attention, he says: “If you’ve got any questions and stuff. Just ask, ‘kay?” Stiles gives the other a close-lipped smile, not less sincere than the previous one. 

Spirits lifted, Derek nods excitedly. “Okay, thanks.” 

At recess, Stiles introduced Derek to his ‘friends’ and soon the new boy was getting along just fine with the other students and gaining some popularity.

Once Stiles made sure everything was going well, he quietly drifted off and occupied the base of a tree in the playground hidden behind a grouping of bushes. Knowing better than to hide himself entirely, unless he wanted to cause some kind of panic for their chaperones, he made sure his profile was visible to the adult or volunteer watching them but was not really visible to his classmates. He placed his bag lunch next to him and pulled up a sandwich he’d helped his mom make, while opening up a pocket-sized book about the supernatural for kids, disguised as a slightly morbid story book. When Mandalei handed it to him, he’d been amused at her eye-roll to his commercial-like description of it as “The Real Grimm’s Fairytales. Now in mini-size.” 

Meanwhile, Derek is looking around for Stiles, but his attention keeps getting snatched away by the new friends he made, asking him to join them on the jungle gym. Once he’s reached the highest part and humbly received some praises, he stopped and asked one of the others: “Hey, do you know where Stiles went?” 

A girl, on a bar lower than his, takes a seat while clutching one of the bars beside her. “No one really knows where he goes off to. And the teachers don’t have a cow over it.” She shrugs uncaringly, and changes topics. “You know, he's really smart? He’s a year younger than everybody else, but he doesn’t even need to pay Mr. K a lotta ‘ten-a tent-”

“Attention?” Derek helpfully interrupts.

“Yeah! He always gets good grades, too.” She sighs dreamily and with some envy in her tone. 

Derek’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “I didn’t know he was younger.” Before he could think more on Stiles, another one of the boys calls him over for a game of tag. By the time recess is over, Derek has firmly established himself in the class and is surrounded by others until they enter the classroom to continue the lesson. Seeing Stiles already seated, he speeds up his gait and plops down in his seat, adrenaline still pumping through him. 

“Hey, Stiles! I didn’t see you at recess.” Derek whispers before glancing up to check that the teacher isn’t looking at them, then glancing back at the other boy.

Stiles, without looking away from his notes, nods and says distractedly: “Yeah.”

“You know-“ Derek picks up his notebook and pencil, trying to hide his nervousness with little success. “I- I mean. We- ah, you could, if you want, maybe play with-“

“Let me stop you there before you hurt yourself, big guy.” Stiles smiles at Derek to lessen the sting of his sarcasm. “Thanks, anyway. But I’m good. ‘Sides, you had fun, right?” 

Derek, shy, smiles and nods back. He didn’t push it,  recalling his mom’s lecture on how human children needed to be treated gently along with the promise that he would suppress most of his heightened senses . _‘Or else mom’ll take me back and keep me homeschooled till I’m old.’_

As it just so happens, at the end of the day, the last two students waiting for their ride back home are Derek and Stiles. 

Stiles opened his book and purposely exuded uninterrupted focus. 

On the other hand, Derek was shuffling his sneakers and adjusting his backpack, looking for some kind of opening to start a conversation with the other boy. Just when he’d finally built up the courage to say something, he’s interrupted by the rumble of a familiar engine. 

A 1993 metallic, silver Toyota Supra twin turbo with blue trim race stripes on the side pulls up into the kindergarten’s front lot. One of the teachers standing by the entrance has to take a second glance at the car coming in, quietly wondering if someone driving a car like that should have children seated inside; they take a quick look at the list of approved cars and see that the plate number matches a name listed under ‘D. Hale’. 

The car stays idling and only the driver’s door opens, revealing a teenager with slightly gelled up, dark brown hair, sharp features, and noticeably blue eyes. He’s slightly muscular along with being lean and tall, but moves smoothly, as if adjusting easily to his gradual transformation from teen to adult.

Stiles takes all this in with a quick sweep of his eyes, but he knows, even de-aged, that the guy is Peter Hale. _‘Not yet Two-Faced Harvey Dent, anyway. Better make sure Rachel doesn't get blown up by the Joker. Which means the whole Hale Family is Rachel, and Kate Argent is Joker… I think I just threw up a little. Nope, nah to the nah fucking way. Heath Ledger’s Joker is too awesome to get lumped with Kate fucking-’_

“‘Sup, Derek. This your boyfriend?”

After a quick glance up, making sure to make no eye contact, Stiles decides the best course of action is to follow the philosophy of ignorance is bliss by returning to determinedly staring into his book.

“Boy-friend?” The five-year old gives it a thought. “Yeah! Stiles helped me out on my first day of class.” The green-eyed boy sends an enthusiastic smile to Stiles which dims when he notices the boy’s attention is still on the book. 

Noticing the exchange and presuming some bullying is afoot, Peter steps closer into Stiles’ space quickly, causing the boy to jump and drop the book in his lap. 

Stiles blinks and looks down at his book, internally cursing his luck. _‘For some reason, I can hear Ursula from the “Little Mermaid” singing ~Poor unfortuna-’_

“Hey!”

Startling at the tone, Stiles looks up at glaring blue. Unthinkingly he mutters to himself, “Like the ocean? So unfair.”

Peter’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “What the heck are you talking about scrawny?” 

Unable to reign in his natural state of cynicism, Stiles retorts. “Scrawny? That the best you can do?”

The much taller and older boy steps closer, easily agitated as any hormonal teen, and notices the strong scent of magic. When he’s within three-inches of the boy, the smell only gets thicker until it’s all he’s breathing in. “Why do you smell like that?”

“Uhh… Excuse me, you’re too creeper-close.” Stiles edges back from Peter, and warns: “Move any closer, and I’ll scream.”

The teen blinks shining, yellow eyes. “What?”

Just as Stiles takes a deep breath to scream, he sees his mom’s jeep coming into view. Faster than the coordination of most five-year olds, he jumps up out of his seat and scrambles away. “Bye!” 

Throughout the exchange, Derek was shocked still and confused. “Uncle Peter!” The green-eyed boy moves to tug on his uncle’s jacket. “You scared my friend away!” 

Peter —still staring back at Stiles’ form disappearing into a light blue jeep— absent-mindedly scoops up his nephew and throws him over his shoulder, all while walking back to the car.

“Uncle Peter!” Derek shrieks one last time. 

In the car, a girl with long, slightly wavy brunette hair crosses her arms at the display, a heavy expression of disapproval on her face. 

When the door opens, Peter is met with a snarky, deepening voice proclaiming: “I’m telling mom!” 

As Peter finishes buckling Derek into the backseat, he responds equally, snarky: “Ooh~ you’re telling my sister on me? Real mature, Lars.”

“It’s Laura!”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Derek interrupts, obvious affront in his tone. “What about my friend? You gotta say sorry, Uncle Peter.”

Starting the car back up after leaving it idle too long, Peter looks into the rear view mirror and rolls his eyes.

Meanwhile, the teacher who’d been privy to the whole scene was just left standing there; eyes possibly, permanently bugged out. Days like this make them wonder if they made the right career choice.

______________

 

“How are you finding Beacon Hills?”

“It’s good.”

“You seem to be doing well in class.”

“Yeah, I make sure to take notes.”

“Any problems with the other children?”

“Some of them said stuff about my name- full name. Some others were nice about it.”

“Children tend to speak what’s on their mind, not caring if its mean or nice.”

A shrug. “Haters gonna hate.”

“Short but profound.” A smile.

“I try.” 

“Have you made any friends among your classmates?”

“Sure.” Fast.

An extended silence.  “This time is yours, Stiles.” A gentle reminder. 

He rubs his eyes with his palms. Hard enough that he sees spots. “Yeah.” His sleep is fitful, but he sleeps so that’s something. He just met a de-aged version of one of his former pack mates, technically his former, former Alpha? And a de-aged version of a deranged wolf that offered to bite him while attacking/killing his friends. He notices her glance at the slight bruising under his eyes, he’ll have to ask for those ice-pack sleep mask things. Keep the purple eye-bags away.

“Something happened.” 

Stiles grits his teeth behind closed lips. “Wanna tell me how I should feel, doc?”

“Never.” He lifts his head at her quick response. 

His mouth opens, fighting the two warring fronts inside him: to say something or nothing. The furrow in the middle of his brow deepens. “I’m fine.”

At the assessing look still aimed his way, he somehow maintains his composure. 

“Is that what you tell yourself?”

A laugh lacking humor. He covers his mouth and closes his eyes. _‘I watched them die. Right in front of me. Every time they bled, I could feel it on my hands. Clinging to my skin, like super glue, where tearing it off meant ripping myself apart.’_

“Stiles, your parents told me that your nightmares have somehow gotten worse.”

_‘Because I’m remembering more. Clearer and clearer, like a fucked up IMAX 3D movie of my life. I don’t know if I should cry or praise the fact they haven’t invented IMAX yet. But the 90s 3D… No way, man.’_

He sees her expression change after glancing at the clock. The session is almost done. 

“Stiles.” At her tone, amber meets kind dark, almond-shaped eyes. “I want you to try writing your nightmares down on paper, and after you’re done, try re-writing them.”

He sniffs, tears not yet having the chance to fall. “Re-writing them?” 

“Like, if you see something scary. Change it to something sweet or nice. For example, turning a homicidal clown into a harmless painting of bright colors and shapes on white canvas. Whatever you like.”

He pauses and thinks about it. “Does that really work?” 

Mandalei leans back on her chair, across from Stiles with no obstructions between them. “Honestly? It’s a new treatment they’re still testing, but I think with a sharp mind like yours. Some creative outlets wouldn’t hurt.” 

Stiles nods. Acquiescing from the guilt of his silence and the desperation of his reality. “Yeah, okay. I’ll try it.”

_______________

 

Since that first encounter, Stiles has purposely done his best to hideaway when the day is over. 

But his strategy goes off the rails when his mom calls the school one day to tell him that she’ll be stuck at work until late in the night, and how she was able to set up a ride and a babysitter for him. The five-year old’s already pale skin tone goes paler, causing the secretary at the desk to ask if he was alright. It turns out that he really, really wasn’t. 

He’s waiting outside the entrance with Derek, the boy’s face looking eagerly at him as he buries his own within the pages of his book. 

The same silver vehicle from his earlier encounter drives in, carrying with it a sense of foreboding, since that was the exact plate number his mom had just told him to keep an eye on. 

_‘Seriously? Just. G-d fu-Damn shit— Agh!’_

To himself. “Did that make sense?”

“What did?” 

The innocent question startles him enough that he drops his book, only for the original cause of his startle to catch it for him.

Derek grins at his friend, then turns his attention to the book’s cover, old leather trimmed with gold accents in a sylvan aesthetic. “No cover? What’s it abou-”

Fingers, showing signs for room to grow longer, curl and cover the ones clutching his book. As he steps up to the other boy, Stiles turns an intense amber gaze to surprised green, gray. 

“Please.”

“Oh!” Realizing he was still holding the book, Derek moves to give it back. But while both boys were distracted, it gave the driver of the familiar car time to exit and cross to them, snatching the book between the two children. 

“What do we have here?” Peter flips open the book.

Agitated. “Give it back!”

“Uncle Peter! That’s not yours.” Derek adds, reprimands. 

“Relax, twerpets.” When all he’s met with are children’s illustrations, the teen loses interest, or at least pretends to. “Here.” He hands it back to Stiles and is met with a suspicious frown. 

“Hmph.” After stuffing his book back in his bag, he thumbs the strap over his shoulder. “You’re my babysitter?” Internally, he crosses his fingers, but the hope in his heart shrivels like a snail sprinkled with salt. 

“Yup.” Peter pops the ‘p’ with a conniving and self-satisfied glee in his eyes. 

“Good for you.” Stiles bites, and moves to car followed by Derek. Since the other boy moves left, he moves to the right, which happens to be the seat behind the driver’s side. 

‘ _This can’t possibly get any better.’_ He places his small backpack by his feet and buckles in.

“What’s your name?” A girlish voice transitioning to a husky quality has him turning his head up, ruining his recent plans of doing otherwise. Instead of meeting a green, grey gaze, he meets dark hazel.

“Stiles.” He answers passively. 

Peter interrupts with: “But it’s not really, is it?” 

Stiles rolls his eyes, and leans back on his seat. “If you can say it, be my guest.” He waves imperiously at the front. 

Meanwhile, both Derek and Laura are left looking back and forth between the two as if they were watching an intense volley between pro-ping pong players. 

With a cheeky smirk, Peter responds: “Anastasia, right?” 

“Aw, that’s so pretty.” Coos Laura. She turns to Stiles with a smile. “My name’s Laura, nice to meet ‘ya.”

Stiles pauses and hopes his shock isn’t visible. He shouldn’t be surprised, but the last time he saw her, she was dead and missing half her body, her brother having half-buried her. The memory makes him want to shudder, but he tenses his muscles and smiles back. His heart must have sped up, because he notices the glance Peter throws him. 

Derek brings a curled fist to his forehead, hunching forward and subconsciously miming Rodin’s _The Thinker_. He looks to Stiles and matches the name he’d just been informed with and the person sitting to his left. Decisively, he nods. “Pretty.”

A too-heavy scowl on a five-year old’s face speaks of horrible terrible things being threatened to Peter’s person, while the two other kids are met with squinted eyes that threaten more milder forms of retribution. “Ha!” Scoffed. “No. My name is Szczepan Anastazja Stilinski. It’s Polish, and most people can’t say it prop- right. So, I go by Stiles.” 

Simultaneous ‘Ohs’ of understanding come out of Derek and Laura. 

On the other hand, Peter waves his fingers, dismissive. “I’m not most people.”

“Uh, yeah. You are. Were you not here for the last two-seconds?”  

Before Peter can retort, Derek interrupts. Excitedly bouncing in his seat, Derek turns to the other boy. “You’re coming home with us?”

Amused at his nephew’s clear interest in the other boy, Peter starts driving to the Preserve.  

Stiles shakes his head, looking back down. “Just need a ride home.”

“And a babysitter.” Peter adds on, gleefully. 

Derek nods understandingly. “Oh. Well, we could talk about stuff on the way.” 

“Stuff?”

“Yeah, like, what’s your favorite color? Mine’s red.”

“I like red.” 

“Cool! What books do you like?” 

A shrug. “All kinds.”

And a conversation following in that same vein continues on, only sometimes interrupted by Laura or Peter adding their two-cents. 

 

****

 

At the Stilinski’s house, Peter parks in front of the walkway leading to the front door. The structure was placed just on the border between the woods and suburbia, neighboring houses maybe fifty to seventy feet away; at most, fifteen to twenty minutes from the Hales’ depending on traffic.

The second the car stops, Stiles steps out like a shot, already at the door, while Peter stalks forward on a loping gait, like a predator patiently waiting for their prey to give up.

The door is painted a dark, aqua green hue with gold-colored door knobs, hinges, and a tastefully simple knocker. From the outside, the house has two-stories; an upper and ground level space. The outer walls are made of brick, with flowers growing lushly outside double-hung windows and along the walkways. An attached garage stands by the side with a bright red door. The roof is made up of old, ceramic shingles in a dark-brown coloration, while wisteria vines grow along the sides and tops of the house, a beautiful tableau of soft lavender among vibrant green and matte reddish clay. 

Peter’s first impression reminds him of a fairytale cottage. “Who knew houses like this were still around Beacon Hills…” He says under his breath. 

“You gonna do your job from outside the house?” 

Reaching the door opened ajar, Peter’s greeted with an unhappy moue. 

Met with silence, Stiles continues: “I mean if that’s what you do.” He shrugs carelessly. 

Peter enters the house and immediately feels a sense of comfort and safety he’d only thought was available at his own home— either in his study, his room, or the family library. Sincere, “I like your house.”

Blinking in surprise at the lack of teasing, Stiles turns around. “Lock the door, please.” He drops off his backpack in the living room and heads to the kitchen with an open-plan design, no desire to leave his babysitter unattended but wanting some distance.

Still wrapped up in comfort, Peter quietly looks through the decorations and photographs lining the walls without disturbing anything. 

“Do you want anything to eat?” 

The distracted teen whips his head in the direction of the voice, unable to hide his smile at the little boy wearing a powder-pink apron. “Nice pink.” He tilts his head, teasing. “Why, you gonna cook for me? Shouldn’t I be the one doing that?” 

“You know how to cook?” Stiles ignores the comment on the color of his apron. So what if he’s wearing a pink apron, he can obviously rock the look and screw genderist stereotypes, anyway. 

At the dubious tone, Peter glares without any real heat behind it. “Yes, I know how to cook.” 

Chin raised in defiance. “Yeah, well, me too.” 

“Let me guess…” Tapping a finger at his chin. “Your menu consists of sandwiches of the peanut butter and jam variety with the added serving of water, juice, or soda as a drink.” Sardonic. 

“Ehhh!” Perfectly mimicking an incorrect buzzer sound from most game shows, Stiles pulls out his original plans for the dinner he was going to greet his parents with. “I was gonna make seafood pasta, Mr. I-think-I-Know-Everything.” 

Peter throws his jacket at the couch and rolls up his sleeves in reply, an expressive eyebrow raised in challenge. As the two work together, Peter nonchalantly states: “So, you’re a Spark.” 

“That’s not a question.” 

“Are you a Spark?” 

Stiles grabs the shrimp and scallops, then starts seasoning and boiling them. Before he can finish climbing the counter to pick up the homemade tomato and Alfredo sauce he’d helped his mom make, Peter reaches the jar first and passes it to him. Seeing no real harm in admitting it to a walking-talking lie detector, Stiles rejoinders with a blasé: “Yep,” making sure to pop the last letter. “What’s it to you?” He asks, while handing the teen an onion and some cloves of garlic to be cut. “Cut these.”

Following the order without comment, Peter answers: “I’m a werewolf.”

“Yeah, so?” 

At the unimpressed tone, Peter pauses to raise a questioning brow at Stiles. “You know many werewolves?”

“Used to know some.”

“Ah, back in San Fran.”

Frowning brows. “How do you know that?”

“Pretty much everyone knew when you guys moved here. It’s a small town.”

Grumbling to himself: “Not that small.” He speaks up: “Anyway, I knew about your furry self cuz your eyes went from blue to yellow in broad daylight, last time.”

As a demonstration, Peter pulls a half-beta shift, fangs dropped and eyes shining yellow. 

“Like that but not the-“ Stiles gestures to his own mouth, before curiosity gets him and he starts reaching out to touch one of the eye-teeth.

Peter quickly pulls the shift back. “Careful!” 

“Hey! You’re the one dropping fang, teen wolf. Besides, aren’t you my babysitter?” 

“You want me to sit on you?” 

“Then you’d kill me with your fat self, duh.”

“I am _not_ -!”

Willfully ignoring the other’s indignation. “How’d you get to be my babysitter, anyway?” Stiles turns back to check on the boiling sea-life. _‘Sea-dead? Man, I don’t wanna see dead people. Never again, if I can help it.’_

Peter brings the sliced vegetables to a prepped sauce pan and starts sautéing them. “You’re not the only smart one, point dorkster. Number one spot in the school since freshman year.” He checks his nails smugly and turns a satisfied smile to the boy. “And I actually do have a baby-sitting job. Your mom’s my favorite bio-teacher. After class, I heard her say something and offered my services. That and I was already on the way to pick up my niece and nephew.”

“Hmph. But, yeah, my mom’s pretty awesome. Same with my dad, too, of course.” 

Amused and unable to control the urge to tease, Peter leans forward and pinches the boy’s cheek when he’s grabbing the home-made pasta from the fridge. “Aww, someone’s proud of their parents.” 

Finding no reason to be embarrassed at the truth, Stiles shrugs and bats away the pinching hand. “‘Course, I am. No reason not to be.” 

Tilting his head at such an earnest answer, Peter stares a little longer at the boy, comparing him to a puzzle. “You’ve got me there.” 

From there, the two finish up the dish in silent companionship and sit across from each other at the counter, plates of freshly made pasta in front of them. 

While they eat and slurp, Peter says: “How would you feel if I was your regular babysitter?”

Stiles looks up from the fork looped spaghetti he’d been about to put in his mouth. “Only if you help me out with any future school stuff. And you gotta say sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“For last time.”

“What?” Feigning ignorance. 

“Werewolf with hearing problems?”

A tick in his jaw. “No.”

“So, apologize.”

He rolls his blue eyes. “...I’m sorry.”

The five-year old pauses in his eating with an obnoxious slurp. He looks at the other boy long enough to allow the awkward silence to settle. “Hmm, I’ll believe you.” 

Drily. “How magnanimous.” 

Stiles, pretending not to know the word, since he is just five, says: “Magnet moose?” 

Peter chokes on the pasta he’d been about to swallow. Painfully, letting the heavy weight of the chewed material slide down his throat, he releases a breath of a laugh and can’t control his cackling. “Wow, a year younger than the rest of your classmates, and you can’t read a dictionary?” 

Sulking, and knowing better than to admit to his awareness of the definition, Stiles leaves his plate and seat. 

Wondering if he’d hurt the boy’s feelings with his teasing, Peter also stands and gets ready to cross to the entrance leading out from the kitchen to the rest of the house. But before he can do more than get a foot out of the space, Stiles reappears with an Oxford Dictionary in his hand. 

“Show me.” Stiles waves the dictionary at the teen’s face. 

Peter’s face clears and a genuine smile appears. He takes the dictionary and flips it open to the ‘M’ section. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m telling my parents.”

“I’m telling my Alpha.” 

Blue meets amber head on. Simultaneous: “Fine.”

“Just your Alpha, and they can’t tell anybody else.”

“Okay. Then, just your parents and no one else.”

“Just my parents.” Unyielding. 

Truly, the start of a beautiful friendship. 

________________

 

“I’ve been re-writing them.” 

Appreciating her patient’s initiative, she maintains her open expression and gives him the space to fill the silence.

Stiles rubs at his forehead and swallows. “It- It’s better.” 

She can’t help but smile to see the lightening expression on her patient’s face. “I’m glad.” 

“...but?”

“But… it could also help to voice them out loud.”

“But that makes them too real.” _‘Because they are.’_

She nods and rather than push for a confrontation, she changes the subject. “Your babysitter. This is the first time you’ve had someone other than your parents watch over you, yes?” 

Appreciating her diversion, he answers. “Yeah.”

“Is it a difficult change?” 

“No, not really.” 

She keeps herself from reacting at the nonchalance. “No resentment for your parents?”

Stiles releases an incredulous breath. “None.” 

“When my grandchildren were faced with a babysitter, they terrorized the poor dear.” 

He blinks his eyes curious and confused. “Terrorized, how?”

“There was one time involved with a lot of crying and sobbing-- by the sitter, I mean. The time super glue was involved with furniture and limbs. Burned hair. Colored hair. A group effort. My daughter and her spouse had to pay that sitter very well.” Mandalei describes the events not unlike how a daily forecast would be conducted.

He blinks his eyes in surprise and laughs, honestly. “What? That’s-” Entertained and bewildered. “Why?”

She shrugs. “The exact same age as you now, and they didn’t want their parents’ attention away from them.” 

He tilts his head and nods. “I get that. But that sitter is just doing their job. Unless, they were the babysitter from hell. In which case, yeah, attack on babysitter. Though, the burning sounds like… How’d they?-”

“Hair straightener.”

“Oh… They still could’ve hurt themselves…In a seriously, serious way. I mean- the babysitter, too. Those things are just hot irons in miniature. Oh. Sorry, rambling.”

“Not at all.”

“Anyway, their parents were probably busy. Money comes from trees, but it doesn’t just fall from the sky, like that.” A snap of fingers.

“So?” 

“ _So_ , parents have to work.”

“That’s a concept most children don’t understand at the tender age of five.” 

At the statement, Stiles pauses and makes eye contact with her. “So, what’re you saying, doc? I’m not five?” 

She exhales a short laugh and shakes her head. “No, Stiles. You’re very much a five-year old. I just wonder if _you_ know it.”

His response is a slow blink, clearly conveying ‘uhh…?’ 

Somber. “High grade average. Well-behaved. Skirting social interaction just enough to pass muster, but not too much to be deemed a social butterfly. Always responsible. Even going so far as to care for his parents, while demanding nothing from them.” 

“So I shouldn’t do any of those things.” Stiles shakes his head incredulously and releases a dark chuckle. He’s not five. “How about I pull a Dennis the Menace, but less cute and more screamy and angry. Or you know, breaking stuff whenever I feel like it. That’ll really demand something, right?”

“Stiles, you come across as a picture perfect child, and I can tell that your parents are grateful for your maturity and understanding. But you need to remember that you _are_ a child.” Mandalei makes sure to meet the boy’s eyes, emphasizing the seriousness of her words. “You can misbehave. You can make mistakes, of which learning from them is far from being a problem for you. If you don’t like something, you can get angry and yell. If you like something, you can smile and ask for it. You’re even more welcome to cry and laugh at your convenience, rather than restricting those negative energies to your nightmares and utilizing those positive energies for others.” She keeps her voice even but shows emotion as an example that outward, self-expression is not something to avoid.

He notices that she’s not talking to him like you would to any other kid with an elementary grade education. He knows that she knows his parents talk to her, but more from a place of love and worry. He’s aware that he’s breaking character so much from how he was when he was this age. “I’m fine.”

Mandalei successfully restrains the sigh bottling up inside her, expecting it doesn’t curb the disappointment. “Your parents, and myself if you can believe it, want more than ‘fine’ for you. We want you to be happy.”

“I’ve got my mom and dad. I’m happy.”  

‘ _Then all that’s left is making sure the rest of them live.’_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the story goes on.

Five going on six. Six going on seven. Seven going on eight.

His classmates and ‘friends’ (eight going on nine) talk about party plans and all the presents they’re going to get like it's a competition:

‘I’m gonna get a moonbounce!’

 

‘My cake’s getting two layers!’

 

‘Oh, yeah. Well, my party’s happening at Disney Land.’

 

‘Nuh-uh.’

 

‘Yah-huh.’ 

 

“So, what are _you_ doing for your birthday, Stiles?” Somebody asks him. 

It takes every ounce of control he has to calmly say, “I’m going to celebrate with my parents.”

Another voice asks, dubious, “That’s it?”

He shrugs, a twitch of the shoulder, and turns his attention purposely back to the book in his hands, hoping to put off any other questions. Right now, they were all just a warbling cluster of noises to him. Since he remembered a total seventeen years’ worth of memories, he’s never forgotten what year and circumstance he and his dad broke a little bit inside. 

Some note paper, a pencil, and his own set of Stilesh Letters, equals a checklist of unforgettable symptoms. 

This is how he spends the days leading up to his eighth-birthday.

At school, he maintains his grades and his social niceties. But compared to before, conversations never last more than three minutes, at most. A few spared words are enough until he drifts away like a dawn mist falling over a valley, gone in the mid-morning light. Stiles is aware that his classmates and so-called friends have already noticed and adjusted to the pattern, but only one persists. He thinks it mostly stems from fondness through their introduction as Derek’s first ‘friend’ in school then reinforced by continued proximity, what with him sharing after-school rides with the other boy. This Derek is a good kid (considerate, thoughtful and has braces- who’da thunk it?), but he doesn’t have time to entertain good kids, or anybody not part of his nuclear family.

At home, if he’s left with his babysitter [Peter], what once was lively intelligent discussions, in so far as he can reveal at his age, had become inured with monosyllabic, grunts of communication-- more from his end, really. Peter, in his earlier attempts, would try to goad, manipulate, or provoke some kind of familiar verbosity, but with Stiles’ efforts, Peter’s were for naught.

With his dad, he makes sure to feed him the healthiest and best of foods. He asks his father about stories from work, prompting the man to expound on his experiences, ready to impart any form of paternal wisdom to his inquisitive sponge of a child. 

With his mom, he makes sure to feed her the largest and best of smiles/laughter. He asks his mother about stories from family, prompting the woman to expound on her tales, ready to impart any form of maternal sapience to her curious wonder of a child. 

To his parents, he showers them with attention, surreptitious in his observations. ‘ _I want to give them as much happiness as I can before things take a turn for the worst.’_

 

****

Something warns him not to count his chickens before they hatch, but the more time that passes and no sign of a symptom shows...

He hopes. 

He dreams. 

He smiles. 

Honestly and openly, cracks form in the fortress of his jaded shell. Breathing in the fresh air, blinded by streams of sunlight, as his fingers pass through the gaps not unlike a newborn bird peeking an eye through its broken egg.

Don’t count your chickens before they hatch. 

 

****

It was a good day at school and everybody was ready for the last day to end. His eighth birthday was on the Wednesday of next week, the first week of summer.  
  
He socialized without false niceties and polite distance. Talk of the upcoming movies: _Alien Resurrection, The Lost World: Jurassic Park, Starship Troopers, Men in Black_ to name a few. He’d planned to watch the new Jurassic Park movie with his parents for an after-birthday celebration, though he knew the first would always be his favorite.  
  
His mom showed none of the signs and symptoms: no sudden mood swings, no straying thoughts, no verbal abuse followed by tears of honest regret-- no frontotemporal dementia. His dad was as healthy as a racehorse; no premature gray hairs, no heavy eye bags, no red rimmed eyes, no hands clutching brown-green-blue bottles, no heavy wrinkles on his forehead-eyes-mouth; no heartbreak for the first and last woman he’d ever loved.  
  
Except.  
  
On May 16, 1997, an armed robbery was taking place at a local but prominent bank visited by the richer side of the Beacon Hills’ population. The Sheriff’s department sent all available deputies, along with the current sheriff to negotiate with the criminals and rescue hostages, including families with children.  
  
People came in for whatever banking needs they had and sometime around noon, during the lunchtime lull, eight-men appeared from within the bank carrying guns and bags, while wearing full-face masks, white with no discerning features like the ones from any arts and crafts store. Four of them stayed on the main floor, while four others turned to the manager asking about the vault.  
  
When the police arrived, negotiations went nowhere with the perps demanding space unless they wanted bodies dropped off one by one through the front door. The Sheriff, tired and ready for retirement, ordered the rest of the officers to standby.  
  
The hostages were all kneeled down and huddled tight like sardines in a can.  
  
While the Sheriff and other deputies were stuck outside watching inside the bank through binoculars, they noticed a familiar face among the crowd of hostages, Deputy Stilinski. Knowing his department was in over their heads, the Sheriff called for backup from the city police department, who brought in their own SWAT team since the county was outgunned.  
  
John looked back and forth from his fellow hostages to the police waiting outside, and the four armed men watching them. He knew the procedures, so waiting it out was the smartest move until SWAT started tipping the balance with their presence. His eyes met a red-rimmed, light blue. It was a little boy with dark, blond hair being held by his parents. Instinct had him sending the boy a reassuring smile, quietly amazed that the boy was so still except for his shaking hands held in a tight grip on his own arms. When the boy responded with a confused but less vulnerable expression, he checked back on the criminals, who were all looking outside.

  
At the sound of thundering footsteps, the four holding the civilians hostage turned to see that a SWAT team rather than their other partners were headed their way. Two of the perps turned to each other and tried to drop their guns only to have two remaining ones point back in anger.

  
As the argument escalates, SWAT distributes its people outside and inside the building at vantage points with clear shots of the four perps. When the guns start to move away from the hostages, shots are fired to disarm, but a stray bullet was fired from one of the guns held by a perp.  
  
The little boy staring at the barrel of a gun closes his eyes and waits for the pain. But all he felt was the slump of a heavier body stumbling into him.  
  
A bomb was set by the vault, and by the time the rest of the SWAT team found out, they rushed quickly to evacuate the rest of the civilians.

  
  
****

  
  
Just before the day is over, Stiles is summoned to the principal’s office. They tell him that his mom is picking him up early, and he wonders where his dad is because he was supposed to pick him up today, so they could stop by Martha’s Diner for curly fries and milk shakes.    
  
Not even ten minutes and he hears his mom’s jeep. Rushing out the front doors, he climbs in throwing his bag to the backseat before his mom peels out of the lot, she didn’t put the car in park. The urge to ask sits in his throat but one glance at his mom, and he keeps quiet. His heart beating faster by the minute.  
  
They stop at Beacon Hills Memorial, haphazardly parked. His mom runs out and he matches her stride.  
  
“My husband, John Stilinski.” Claudia demands at the Nurse’s station, and her no-nonsense attitude has the nurse at the counter standing rigid and checking the computers.  
  
“He’s currently in the OR. Why don’t you wait here-“  
  
“The room number.”  
  
The nurse, young and looking barely out of college, pauses and turns to her co-worker, a woman around the same age as his mom. Her profile looks familiar, and when the woman turns around he knows why.  
  
As the other nurse gets informed about the situation, she turns a scolding glance at the younger before addressing his mom. Her name tag says: Melissa McCall.  
  
“Sorry, about that. Room 210.” Melissa sends an understanding look to his mom before she notices him and gentles her smile.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Mother and son spend the time silently, but once they arrive, a dam breaks. Claudia lets one sob out before she glances at her son and tries to send him a comforting smile, broken by her fear. “Szczepan, it’s going to be-“  
  
“Mom,” Stiles knows she just wants to make him feel better, but he can’t hear that lie a second time, even if it’s from his other parent. Instead, he reaches a hand out and tugs his mom to one of the rows of chairs by the wall. They sit, and he breathes and forces his lungs and throat to cooperate, obstructs the incoming panic attack. His mom needs him, after all, so he holds her hands between his smaller ones.

 

The two seem like a trapped silence, cornered in a maelstrom of movement and noise.  
  
It’s been hours and the Stilinskis are still sitting on the chairs. Claudia turns to her son and is so grateful for his patience, but his silence worries her. “Are you hungry?” When their eyes meet, so similar in their coloring, she can’t help but press a kiss to his forehead. “Food and some drinks will do us some good.”  
  
Stiles nods, but. “I don’t wanna leave dad.”  
  
“We won’t be. It’s just for a few minutes and we’ll be right back. Don’t think I missed your stomach grumbling, Szczepan.”  
  
His cheeks color at the reminder and he acquiesces— knows that starving won’t help anybody.  
  
Just as the two begin to stand, Melissa walks to them with a steaming coffee in her left hand and two pre-wrapped sandwiches in her right. “Sorry- I just- I’ve got a son of my own, but he’s a lot younger than yours. That and I heard about what happened. My husband’s in the FBI, so I kind of…” She trails off and sheepishly holds out the items, readies to be told off for meddling.  
  
Boggling, Claudia eyes the offerings before glancing back at the nurse, whom she’d only met earlier. Her son breaks the stand off by taking one of the sandwiches, a subdued thank you leaving his lips. “Oh, thanks. This is… very kind of you. I’m Claudia Stilinski. This is my son, Szc- Stiles.” She takes the coffee and offers her hand to be met with a gentle grip.  
  
“Hi, again. Melissa McCall.”  
  
Two Stilinskis and one McCall settle back on the seats, and Stiles is secretly glad his mom has somebody to distract her, even just for a short period. Melissa stays with them for a few more minutes before her pager has her going elsewhere. The two women bonded over the careers their husbands chose and exchange numbers, the nurse was new to Beacon Hills and was hoping Stiles could have a play date with her son even with the five-year age difference.  
  
No sooner than Melissa had left, did the operating doors open. They stand and meet the doctor, still donned in full gown, gloves, and mask. The man’s down-turned face and posture says it all, he’s covered in blood.  
  
On May 16, 1997, Jonathan ‘Janusz’ Noah Stilinski dies on the operating table at ten-pm. Stiles has a panic attack.

  
  
______________

  
Stiles skips his session with Mandalei that same week and tells his mom he doesn’t want to celebrate his birthday.  
  
The funeral is going to be on a Sunday, exactly one week after the incident and four days after his birthday. She would’ve waited longer, but he told his mom otherwise. Better to get it done quickly, like ripping off a bandaid.

  
_______________

  
  
The days leading up are miserable and tense. Claudia takes off work, distracts herself by maintaining the house, and looks after her only son.  
  
Though it’s usually not done, the Stilinskis received John’s police badge. It turns out that his dad saved Assistant District Attorney Whittemore’s adopted son, and the man was able to pull a few favors.  
  
Stiles gets calls from Peter, Derek, and some of his other classmates. Claudia gets calls from Melissa, David Whittemore, and her coworkers.  
  
He doesn’t answer any of the calls.

She answers briefly before she bows out, polite but dismissive.   
  
Claudia gives her son space to mourn the way he wants, but it’s the day of his birthday and like it or not they’re going to do something.  
  
“Szczepan!” She calls to his room. Receiving no answer, she goes to the door and knocks before entering, finds him on his bed thumb rubbing over the engravings on the badge. She sits with him and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Why don’t you shower and change.” A firm but kind request.  
  
Stiles shakes his head and keeps his eyes on the badge.  
  
“Szczepan… Szczepan, look at me, please.” Finally having his attention, she turns her body to him and brushes the bangs on his forehead back. “It’s your birthday, and we’re going to celebrate.”  
  
“But mom-“  
  
“The day you were born-“ She says wetly before she clears her throat. “The day you were born, your father cried so much I had to pass him some tissues. Me-“ Claudia gestures to herself, voice disbelieving. “Just out of labor and holding you in my arms, and he needed the comforting. And between you and me?” A mischievous smile. “He never did admit to it, not once.”

 Stiles cries at the mention of his dad, but can’t help releasing a bark of laughter. His dad always did get awkward about emotional moments. “What?”   
  
“I know, right! I would have laughed too, but I understood your father’s feelings so well in that moment. I’d be a hypocrite if I called him out.” A wistful smile. “He was so excited to hold you, and I was tired enough to let him, otherwise I would’ve been a lot more selfish of your time.” She nudges him playfully. “Neither of us even wanted the nurse to take you away to get cleaned. Would’ve beaten off the nurse with a stick, if i’d had the energy or the stick.” She brushes the tears off his cheeks before planting a kiss on the top of his head. “You’re always worth celebrating, Szeczepan, I don’t ever want you to think otherwise.”

  
He nods and sniffs. “What’re the b-day plans?”  
  
“Oh, you know, curly fries and milkshakes.”  
  
“From Martha’s?”  
  
“As if we’d go anywhere else.” She states with faux-snobbery, but nonetheless true.  
  
Both are crying openly, but they dredge up small smiles. A reprieve from mourning, just for today.

  
****

  
  
Peter dresses in a jet-black dress shirt, creased trousers, and a black sport jacket. After gelling his hair back and down, he goes down the steps hoping to walk out the door without notice. But in a colonial-style mansion with a large population made up of family being a mix of werewolves and werewolf-raised humans his hopes are dashed at the presence of his nine-year old nephew blocking the door.

“Move, dork.”   
  
Derek shakes his head stubbornly and simply raises his arms on each side. “I’m going with you.” The boy declares with a lisp thanks to his braces.  
  
“Did you ask your mom?”  
  
“…Well-“  
  
“Tough luck, kid.” Peter nudges the obstruction that is his nephew, lightly.  
  
A third voice interrupts them, and they turn to it, knowing better than to disrespect their Alpha.  
  
Talia Hale’s dark brown eyes assess the two, and she raises an expressive brow in askance. “Why are both of you dressed so formally in all black?”  
  
“I’m going to a funeral to give my friend moral support.” Peter speaks faster and over Derek, deeming his brief explanation as reason enough, he attempts to continue through the door but is once again blocked by his nephew. “Derek.” Growled out with a flash of blue eyes.  
  
“He’s my friend, too!” The nine-year old’s chin tilts up and his eyes flash yellow, as if to prove his argument.  
  
“Both of you have the same friend?” Talia tilts her head, questioning what kind of friend a nineteen and nine-year old could have in common.  
  
Impatient, the nineteen-year old speeds up the process with a heavy eye roll and some honesty. “The Sp-” He remembers the unwelcome body and the promise he made, so he gestures his hands to indicate a spark of ember. “You know...I told you about him.”  
  
Derek answers more clearly. “My friend, Stiles. His dad died and today’s the funeral. I wanna be there for him.”  
  
Recognition lights in her eyes. “I see.” She gives each of them an exasperated look. “Instead of arguing about who gets to go, I think it would be best if we all went.” An imperiously raised eyebrow to prove her logic. “I believe it's time I meet your friend. He and his family have me curious. My ADA even asked a favor to allow former-Deputy Stilinski’s family to keep the man’s badge.” Talia taps her chin, lost in thought.  
  
Derek nods eagerly and shifts his feet, rearing to go. 

“Tal, I understand that meeting him is pertinent but this isn't really the best time for The Talk.” Peter looks at his older sister and Alpha. “Also, all thirteen of us showing up with the rest of the town is a bit much, don't you think?”

Talia pauses on her way to the steps and re-evaluates. “Just the immediate family, will do. Though, mother will have to stay behind and watch Cora.”   
  
“Fine, fine. But the funeral’s going to start in two-hours, so if you could pick up the pace, dear sister.”  
  
She nods back before promptly ascending and calling for Laura along with her husband. He appreciates her taking this seriously, but he was hoping to catch Stiles and Mrs. Stilinski before they needed to start the procession. He’ll just have to find another time, after all he’s going back to Berkeley in the fall.

  
****

  
On the day of the funeral, the sun is shining bright. The weather light, neither too hot nor too cold, while the birds chirp a cheerful greeting.  
  
They don their formal mourning clothes. Claudia in a pantsuit, blazer, and flats. Her wavy brown hair braided down to rest across her shoulder. Stiles dresses in a black button down shirt and black slacks. His hair falls naturally showing small waves, his bangs falling over his forehead.  
  
When they walk out the door, they see the police escort, the Sheriff’s cruiser, and what seems to be the rest of the town’s populace. Uncomfortable with the attention, they briskly walk to the jeep parked behind the hearse. They weren’t affiliated with any churches, so they went straight to the funeral home and arranged only for the funeral, the vehicle, and the burial; no wake to happen before or after the fact.  
  
At the cemetery, the Stilinskis stand separate from the large crowd. A podium is set on a platform with Claudia behind it. She has a speech ready, but she folds it back up and looks only at her son. “John is- was a man who cared for the people. He believed in the motto: to protect and serve. But he was even better in keeping up that motto with his family…”  
  
Stiles listens to his mother’s speech, but his eyes are glued to the open casket in front of him.  
  
When his mom’s speech finishes, the other county electives follow and finish. He doesn’t hear their words.  
  
The Twenty-One Bells ceremony comes into play instead of the Three-Salute Volley. Their logic blames the shooter not the gun, but it’s too soon to feel comfortable with the sound of a gunshot much less a group of them.  
  
With the casket still open, Claudia sets down a pink rose along with some daffodils and tulips, while Stiles follows her example with a pink carnation, a red rose, and arnica.  
  
As the casket closes, he memorizes his dad’s face now and recalls his much older face then. ‘ _I love you dad. I can’t thank you enough for- for everything. I’m so sorry I lied to you all those times. Telling you about my magic this time was- it was my way of- I wish I-_ ‘  
  
His thoughts are silenced as the casket is dropped down and covered, and his magic, silent throughout those days, comes back in a deluge.  
  
First the heavy rumble of thunder, an echoing crack of sound so loud it struck eardrums and shook viscera. Second comes the flash of lightning, jagged wounds of blue-white-indigo-purple dancing so close you could almost touch it. Third comes the wind, howling in grief and sorrow; it whips people back and forth, so much so that the mourners leave in groups and droves. Last is the rainfall, a torrential downpour soaking through layers of clothes and skin; cold to the bones and marrow.  
  
For the first time in a long while, he cries and sobs openly without restraint or forethought. His mind is blank with grief and he only feels the pain of loss-- a gaping empty maw he’d known deep inside, expanding. He feels his mom before he sees her. She’s kneeling on the ground, her arms wrapped around his small frame, strong, solid. Here. Her actions break through and he knows without a doubt: she’s with him, always.

Gradually, more and more people walk away in search of shelter. Leaving only two families behind: one grieves and the other watches over. The latter’s eyes shine brightly and unnaturally, a mix of ice-blues, sun-yellows, and one scarlet-red. Peter’s posture stays rigid and alert; ready to protect and support. Derek cries, hearing and seeing his friend’s pain; he holds his dad’s and sister’s hands wishing he could help but knowing it’s not his place to interfere. Talia observes it all, quietly and without judgment; protective of her family and knowing, somehow, that she could feel the same for the grieving family of two. 

As the storm flags, one last strike of lightning lands close to the Stilinskis, causing Claudia to flinch and close her eyes, a reaction the Hales reflect. 

Stiles’ eyes roll up into his head. He collapses in his mother’s arms, exhausted. Nobody notices the slithering shape under his collar, loosely wrapped like a scarf around his neck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Hope you all enjoy this update.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magick or magic, whichever, like any other discipline requires effort and practice.

“So… What’s today’s lesson on?” He asks, while his attention is on his friend. “Am I getting another book on the history of so and so’s experience as an Emissary? Or maybe that book on troll feces and it's spell-casting properties? Oh! How about the effectiveness of fae circles, which are technically indigenous to the British isles? But considering how the American nation first started, it wouldn't be surprising if some of the colonists decided to bring some pieces of their land and practice. It's not like only the Puritans came here. Hello, Vikings, and then Columbus. Column-us? Hey, did you live that long?” He turns the question to his friend before looking up at his teacher, her posture impatiently waiting but he can still see a small tick of an upturned smile. “Hah! You’re smiling,which means my rambling is a beloved and fond quirk instead of an annoyance. Hazzah! For my mold-like ability to grow on people.”

Mandalei shakes her head at her easily distracted student. She glances once at the boy’s friend and despairs at the shared amusement between the boys. _‘Like two peas in a pod, gods help me.’_

“Szczepan. Spokój.”

“Oh, she’s using the names. Serious-time,” Stiles whispers loudly to his friend. Said friend is a small, lean, and fuzzy snake-like creature with a fox’s narrow face, wrapped like a loose choker around Stiles’ neck. It snickers and squeaks in response, agreeable and mocking.

Mandalei clears her throat and gamely tones down her smile with little success. “The lesson today is about using your magic with your familiar.”

Boy and familiar stare, their eyes bugged out, before wide, cheek-to-cheek grins appear. Stiles whoops and jumps, while Spokój does the same through excited yips and swaying dances.

Finally, Mandalei breaks and laughs at the comedic duo.

“Oh my- Yes!” Stiles spins around and is kept from tripping over his feet by Spokój tugging him upright. “Thanks, bud.” To which he’s given a short nuzzle as soft, reddish fur meets pale, beauty marked skin.

“Alright, now that you’ve both gotten the excitement out of your systems.” She ignores their shaking heads. “The first step is knowing what your familiar is.”

Stiles grins and brushes his thumb across his nose, Bruce Lee style. “Easy. Spok’s a Kuda-gitsune or kanko for short. In English, a pipefox.”

“And?”

“The mythos behind pipefoxes focuses on spirit possession.” He’s proud of himself for not flinching at the last word. “People would summon them to these little smoking pipes and ask them questions for accurate divinations, or even bring a curse on others when the summoner asked. The legends usually ended badly for the summoner because the kudagitsune grows strong and becomes more voracious. Its appetite ends up eating the summoner’s wealth and livelihood, leaving their family destitute.”

“A very detailed description. And is that what you believe will become of you, now that Spokój is by your side?”

Stiles looks back at Spokój and is met with wary, black, and beady eyes. He huffs a breath and presses his nose to the tip of the other’s. “No. One thing that the legends with bad endings had in common was the summoner using the kuda-gitsune. Commanding and controlling. Me and Spok here? He’s the best friend I never knew I could have. Not in this lifetime.”

Spokój blinks at their proximity before he twists his body into a tighter, but not choking, hold-- a hug. The pipefox nuzzles the closest cheek and gives a short kiss, as if making his own promise.

Mandalei observes the two quietly having their moment and nods, reassured in the relationship. When Stiles had first come to her with his new familiar, she immediately remembered all the stories her father had warned her about --of the legends behind kitsune, fox spirits. They were worshipped as gods with power enough to equal that status, but the conflicting stories of history could easily provide misinformation, thereby causing a rift between what was and what is. Though some supernatural creatures could be divided between good or bad, too often, those creatures unable to fit either extreme would be falsely doctored.

Seeing their attention returned to her, she straightens her posture before offering a kind smile and nod. “The next step involves an exchange of your names.”

Confused. “Uh, I already gave him a name.”

“Yes, but did you give him yours? And in turn, give you his?”

“‘Course, I did.”

“Or did you tell him to call you Stiles?” His silence speaks volumes to her. “I’ll leave you two some time, otherwise this lesson will have to end early.”

Squaring his shoulders, he nods without question or complaint. When he hears the door click closed, he takes a seat on a stool and turns to Spokój. “I’m sorry. I never even realized.” At the understanding he’s given from his friend, he reaches up with his left hand to grip his hair, a short pull, and uses his free hand to pet Spok. “Still, I’m sorry I made you wait two years. Powers have names, and the books emphasized it so many times I just kept glossing over it.” He tugs hard on his hair, pulling his scalp tight, until a fuzzy head wedges itself through the grip in his hand. A deprecating laugh. “I mean, you could’a said something, or maybe smacked me in the face with your tail.” He snickers when his friend only scolds him in yips and squeaks. He uses the hand that had been petting Spokój to curl in an open handshake. “My name is Szczepan Anastazja Stilinski. 

Spokój twists half his length around the offered hand, his tail touching Stiles’ jugular.

 _“Mine is Lis Kiseru.”_ A voice whispered to him, silent but for the echoes in his mind.

“Woah- That’s. We could have actually had mental conversations this whole time? Can I transmit a thought back to you? Or do you have to initiate it?” He used to repress his stream of consciousness, but after his dad, then talking to mom and Mandalei, well.

_“No, I’m your familiar, and you’re my chosen Spark. I came to you when your magic called for me, and I knew you were mine from then on. This is a two-way street, Stiles.”_

He blinks, amazed doe eyes. “Yeah- I mean. Definitely, Spok. Err, should I call you Li-”

 _“Only if you believe it’s necessary. Names have power, remember?Just call me Spokój or Spok. It’s not a bad name.”_ A mental shrug.

Stiles tilts his head, not missing the caution in the other’s tone. “So you’ll only call me- You know. G-d, this feels like we’re both Voldemort, or something. Heh. Um, what was I…”

Spokój laughs at the boy, releasing what sounds to be bird-like twitters.

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles chuffs. “So you’ll only call me- ‘you know who’- when necessary?”

" _Pretty much. Meanwhile, why don’t you try communicating with me on my wavelength?”_

“Ugh, seriously? We’re gonna do wavelength references because of-” He gestures to at his head. “Brainwaves.” Stiles bites his lip before angling it awkwardly in a sideways pout. “Fine.”

_“HOW’S THIS?”_

_“TOO LOUD._ ” The pipefox copies the volume, winces and shakes his head back and forth. 

Stiles presses a palm to his ear, a vacuum-like ‘whoosh’ sounding as he presses and releases it three times in succession. “Geez! Okay. Try again.” Nervous, he presses two fingers to his temple. _“Better?”_  

_“Much. Although, you really don’t need the fingers. And why am I getting the feeling that the thing you're doing with your fingers is some kind of reference?”_

_“Because it is. I’ve always wanted to try this! Like legitimately for a reason, you know? Professor X, you’re a genius!”_

_“‘Professor X’? From your X-Men comics? But why does the memory come from a movie scene between a boyish, blue-eyed man and another man with sharp features?”_  

_“Oh. Well…first of all they’re canon, obviously. Like, dude-”_

_“Stiles, you know you can trust me, don’t you?”_

_“What?! Of course! See, this isn’t really about trust as much as it is… believable? Incredible? Out of this world?”_

_“I’m a magical being, the size of a pipe, who can do magic. And young but also ancient in human terms. Also, what could be so out of this world from the person who subconsciously summoned me by lightning when he was eight?”_

_“Well- Yeah, you’ve got a point there. Okay, so…”_

As the two conversed, Mandalei peeks through the door for a quick check. Observing that they seem to be conversing amiably, she knocks on the door and interrupts them. With their attention, she says: “So I take it you two have introduced yourselves, officially?" 

The two nod simultaneously.

She claps her hands together. “Good! For the next part of the lesson I’d like to introduce someone very special to me.” With the announcement, comes the sound of flapping wings passing through the open skylight. A small to medium sized bird with a light grey underbelly and darker grey feathers covering the top of its head, back, and wings flew towards them. It had a black streak going across its eyes, tail, and wings with some white spots on its outer edges. “I’d like you to meet Neru, my familiar.”

Stiles and Spokój stare unabashedly at the bird, now perched on Mandalei’s shoulder. “What kind of bird is…” He scrunches his brows. “Neru? Did I say that right?" 

Mandalei nods and brings up a hand to gently scratch Neru’s down feathers. “Neru, here, is a Great Grey Shrike." 

“A shrike?” Stiles makes a disgusted but curious face. “Aren’t they birds that-” He mimes impaling meat on a barbecue.

She shrugs in response. “Only with her prey, and neither you nor Spokój are in that category by either of our standards. If it helps, she’s not only her eating habits. She’s also a songbird.” To which said songbird begins to prove with a twinkling song so twitterpatingly good, both Stiles and Spokój look around expecting a Disney princess to glide from the woods with a gaggle of supposedly sweet woodland creatures behind her.

At her beatific smile, they both nod mutely, grateful for her favor and respecting her more for her character; caring and kind, but clearly a capable hunter. They follow her outside of the room and walk to the border between her property and the forest. Stiles knows about the wards around the property, but it's still a little hard for him to actually see the barrier it makes, unlike Spok who sees it as clear as he sees the forest from the trees. He eyes the cluster and the space between him and the woods, but Mandalei brings him back to focus.

“Do you remember the stories I’ve had you read so far?”

Stiles shrugs. “Yeah, more or less.”

“Hopefully more, because today, you’re going to utilize your studies with Spokój, here.”

“Utilize, how?”

“One way to have your magic adjust better to each other would be to expose yourself to the magicks of other creatures.”

“‘Expose’,” he repeats, unsure. “So you want me to use my magic in front of and at other magical… beings?”

She shakes her head. “You need more time to adjust to your power, and Sparks themselves are rare, so proceeding with caution and anonymity when using your powers would be the safest option,” Mandalei seriously warns, no room for jokes. “What I want you and Spokój to do is simply interact with others. Both of you and the ones I’ll be introducing you to have their own inherent magic-” 

“Because once magic is manifested or born into something, it’s always going to be there. Like an invisibility cloak you don’t have to purposely put on?” At her encouraging nod, he continues. “But magic can be taken, can’t it? I mean if we’re continuing with the invisibility cloak metaphor, somebody could steal it.” He blinks. Cautious fear starts to build in the pit of his stomach, while Spokój seems to curl closer, protective. “Other creatures,” he repeats, dumbly. A suspicious thought arises. “Like werewolves?” They’re both aware of the Hale Pack’s claim over the Northern-California territory. 

She nods. “There’s also brownies, sprites, gnomes, hobgoblins, Leshiye, and other more neutral or ‘good’ creatures.”

“So you’re saying, there are ‘bad’ creatures.” 

“Of course. I made sure you read over some of them.”

“Well, yeah. But I figured, it was written by an an unreliable narrator or biased perspective.”

“While I’m fairly sure those concepts aren’t yet taught to most fifth-graders, your appetite for information doesn’t really surprise me.” Stiles blushes at his teacher’s proud smile; he shrugs. “As you said, that is a possibility, what with winners writing history. However, there are also categories of creatures considered bad or good for a reason. Those considered bad tend to seek havoc and destruction with little reason. This is an oversimplification of a more complex concept, but for now we’ll keep to defining them in the binary of good and bad.”

“Like the stuff about the Seelie and Unseelie court?”

“A good comparison, yes.”

Mandalei gestures lightly with her hand. Fairly rounded and roughly jagged rocks gather at her feet, while Neru flutters away to stand sentinel at a tree branch. The old woman brings both hands in front of her with palms somewhat facing each other, lining them up one above the other. Fingertips of the right touching the dip at the bottom of the left palm, seemingly splitting her form down the middle. 

“Balance is achieved not by having good outweigh bad or vice versa, but by keeping the two sides in equilibrium.” 

Her hands gradually glide until her palms are pressed tight together, with movements matching the rocks that had hovered separately. She formed a small tower of the rocks, one side smooth and the other jagged. The textured rough of the jagged pieces forming holds for the smooth. “Though there are certainly spaces between, where any creature could fit, for such is the world we live in.” She lets her hands go, and the finished tower of rocks remain balanced together, defying gravity. 

Stiles watches the show, mesmerized, but also analyzing his teacher’s words and the imagery she provided him. He sees the open gaps and the tight shadowed lines where rocks meet, precarious in their arrangement, yet still, with no howling wind to tear the structure down or ill fitting space to slip through. However, there is a part of him curious to see how the rocks would fall should he rest a point of his finger, imagining an immediate response if a purposeful nudge was occurred at the base rather than the top. “Does that mean it’s okay if one of these bad things kills an innocent?”

She sends him a commiserating look, understanding the boy’s point. “Stiles, nature is not kind. It is beautiful, vicious, and utterly capable of so much more than what most of humanity could possibly comprehend. You’ve seen those nature documentaries, and those events were filmed for a record of truth or gathering data. Magic and non-magic hides itself from one another for a reason because most magicks could end up in these documentaries for study, or some retaliatory magicks might decide to retaliate aggressively.” She looks at the consternation on his face, but knows him well enough not to worry.

“What about hunters?”

The question blindsides her, and she pauses. “Hunters… are,” The best words she can use to describe them, “-very much human.”

Not appreciating the hallmark cop-out. His indignation shows. “Yeah, but they’re armed with information about the supernatural. Specific pieces of information that usually end up with supernaturals dead, whether they’re good or bad. That’s not balanced.”

“As I said, human.” She shows him her palms. “There are times in history where magicks did not always hide or conduct benign spells. Kingdoms would rise and fall at the hands of magic; some of the more famous being Genghis Khan’s reign and stories of King Arthur, to name a few.”

Stiles eyes light up in curiosity, wondering if he could get his hands on legit documentation of the sorcery behind the stories.

Mandalei, sensing his wandering interest, brings him back to the topic. “These hunters started as a sort of police enforcement, but not all of them follow the original ways. As with any faction, change occurs and groups splinter on differing beliefs.”

She nods at the ground, three paths appearing. “Some follow in footsteps paved by blood and death, tainted by bigotry.” The path on the far right becoming cracked and dry. “Some follow in footsteps paved by an offered hand and new life, painted by diversity.” The far left path starts to grow a row of flowers in all sorts of colorations and arrangements, not one a clear species. “Some even prefer the path of ambivalence, neither for one nor the other but for their own survival or for the betterment of other lives no matter the species.” The middle path stays unchanged.

“You sure about that?” He crosses his arms, a stubborn rise of his chin.

Neru flies back to land on Mandarin’s arm, providing her own comfort to her human by pecking lightly at wrinkled fingers. “I’m sure.” A nostalgic smile, looking off into the distance. “My husband was a hunter, and he taught our daughter his own lessons while I provided her with a, shall we say, more magical perspective.”

He hums and cups his chin, thinking. “So which hunter was your husband? And what kind of hunter is your daughter?”

She shrugs and grins. “Why don’t you tell me what you think?”

“Thought this was a magic lesson, not a psych session.”

In response, she crosses her own arms, still and waiting.

“Well, obviously, you’re still here.” Her repeated shrug both amuses and annoys him for its nonchalance. “You talk about your daughter and her family sometimes, so not estranged… ‘an offered hand and new life, painted by diversity’. That description was more from personal experience than second hand storytelling, wasn’t it?” He fidgets with a sleeve and curls a hand around Spokój, running his fingers through the soft fur.

Mandalei toys with the ring on her neck, hanging by a gold chain. Parts of an inscription slightly visible. “Forty-five years of marriage. Twenty of those years raising a responsible and caring daughter. We were happy when he was with us, and we’re still happy now.”

“Don’t you miss him?” Stiles looks away, a hand starting to move towards his hair but blocked by a nuzzling, vulpine head.

“Everyday, but we -my daughter and I- both knew that what made him smile the brightest was when we were happy.”

Tears start to gather in Stiles’ eyes. He rests the previously petting hand to hold Spokój, still wrapped around his neck. It’s been two-years, and it still smarts like a brass knuckle to the eye. “Sorry for sidetracking the lesson. And being insensitive.”

“Not at all. I’m here to guide you Stiles, and if you gain more than a magical perspective, who am I to restrain your learning.” An easy shrug.

He wipes his eyes and laughs a bit wetly. “Thanks. I know I’m too curious for my own good, sometimes.” 

“While that may be true, I would worry more if you were alone.” A significant nod to the pipefox.

Stiles pets Spokój. “I’m not alone." 

Mandalei moves forward to rest a light hand on the boy’s shoulder, anchoring. “You aren’t. Now, it’s time for you to meet the others, but first.” She gestures to a box and basket that had been sitting by the back door of the cabin.

“What’s in it?”

“Why don’t you find out? And in the meantime let’s have some lunch.”

 

****

 

“Do I really have to go dressed like-” He pulls at the cloth and adjusts the arm holding a picnic basket. “Like this?”

“I distinctly remember you saying that red was your favorite color.”

He lifts up armfuls of the cloth, making it flutter, not unlike a lady picking up her skirts. “It’s kinda big isn’t it? If the only way I can walk without tripping over it means walking like a lady at a ball, then that should be a giant hint it’s too...” he swishes it around, Spokój swaying along.

“You’ll grow into it. And from where I’m standing, you look like you're having a lot of fun.”

That makes Stiles stop in mid flutter, leaving Spokój to be jerked mid sway and accidentally choking his human. 

Mandalei and Neru observe the train wreck of tangled boys, crashing to the ground like a felled tree. The basket luckily avoiding being crushed under their weight, as it was snatched during the fall by Neru, who places the basket down closer to the two boys.

“Ugh,” a sentiment Spokój copies as Stiles rolls on his back. He sees brown, green, and blue before tilting his head farther back to look at his teacher. An unimpressed sulk decorates his face, as he watches his teacher laugh so hard her body shakes with tremors. “Aren't you the adult in this equation?”

Mandalei wipes a tear away and moves to the fallen boy. “Would you like to get up sometime today or should we forego today’s lesson?”

Righting himself quickly, “No, no! See, totally ay-okay here.” Two thumbs up and a grin. 

“Come on, then.”

They walk through the forest, which just so happens to connect to the Beacon Hills’ Preserve. Thanks to the Northern-Californian moderate to freezing temperatures, their summers are always closer to the cool side rather than being so hot, people don’t even need to move to sweat (' _hello, Southern California’_ ).

Stiles pulls up the hood over his head and a matching red scarf/mask over the lower half of his face. He kinda understands how red-riding hood feels now, except his outfit is less of a red hood and more of a full body cloak the color of a deep, dark ruby. It kinda reminds him of blood. “Spok, do you mind?”

 _“Good plan.”_ Spokój, being a young kitsune, is capable of constantly camouflaging himself. His colors change from the color of clay to the same shade of red as the cloak, adding horizontal striations to the scarf-covered neck like a choker placed over a turtle neck.

“It’s a good plan, but I also suggest changing your scent.” Neru, previously forgotten by the two boys, returns with a clutch of small red, yellow, and white flowers with stamens sticking out of their thinly opened blooms.

“Honeysuckle?” He asks and catches the flowers Neru drops as she flies by, gracefully landing on Mandalei’s outstretched arm. “Uhh, what, am I supposed to sniff these or-" 

“Rub those on your scent glands.”

“My-” he blushes to the tips of his ears. “By scent glands you mean,” Stiles gestures generally to all of him. He receives a no-nonsense nod. “Right!” His voice squeaks. “I’ll just be-” he inches closer to a tree, until he has a leg behind it, “-over here!” jumping the rest of the way to conceal himself.

Sounds of rustling cloth and mumbled muttering intrude the tranquil sounds of the forest.

Mandalei waits patiently. Just as she’s about to call for him, Stiles pops back out.  “Perfect.”

The group of four wander around greeting the Brownies, who Stiles made friends with when he helped one of them with a housing problem. He just held the roof in place while the others brought over a thicker more even branch to replace the broken weight-bearing twig. Apparently, helping out the Brownies means being welcomed by their community. The one he helped already planning to move their family to Beacon Hills’ and closer to his house after making arrangements with the community of Brownies already living there. He’ll have to remember to leave a glass of milk with honey out on the porch, and some sewing/knitting tools in the back. 

He got spit on by a hobgoblin, to which he became friendly with after responding by thickly expectorating back. Turns out that not all of them were evil and just liked their space not invaded or despoiled by littering hikers.

The gnomes were kinda bossy, but as long as you gave a willing ear and didn’t try destroying them or their homes they could be reasoned with. Another note was that you do not fuck with gnomes, because they will promise vengeful, vengeful vengeance.

By the time they got to meet a Leshiye, Stiles gained more confidence in his approach and took initiative. In turn, the Leshiye appreciated the boy’s cheerful attitude and told Stiles he was welcome to visit him anytime, since they exchanged their true names. 

The Leshiye: “Keep my name close, and I will do the same with yours.” 

Stiles: “Yeah, no worries. My mouth is sealed and there’s no key, except the one in my brain. So what do I call you then?”

The Leshiye: “You may call me what you wish, unless dire straits call for action.” 

A hand on his chin, and a sparkle of excitement in his eyes. “How do you feel about the name ‘Treebeard’?” Spokój sends a bright thought of amusement, to which Stiles only smiles wider.

Stroking the branches and leaves in his beard, the Leshy laughs his approval. The two promise to keep in touch, especially if there’s any weird happenings in the forest —where Stiles is given permission to learn more about how best to protect the land, while the Leshiye gains another partner in its role as guardian. It’s good to be tight with a guardian of the forest.

After they say their goodbyes, Mandalei ruffles Stiles’ hooded head, “Only you, Stiles.”

“Heh.” Stiles barks a laugh, muffled, while Spokój slithers to place his head right under Stiles’ to tap his human’s chin. The new placement makes Spokój’s head look like a fancy clasp. As they walk further into the forest, Stiles starts to notice the darkening sky, most of the day having gone by. “So when are we meeting the werewolves?”

“Do you remember what phase of the moon it is today?”

Amber, doe eyes turn to the barely visible full moon, unmistakable no matter the distance. “Uh. Sh-Shouldn’t we -oh, I dunno- not be wandering out in the woods at night?” He gestures at the circular shape in the sky shakily.

Mandalei smiles without worry. “The Hale Pack under the current Alpha is in a state of peace that could almost be called domestic, and by that I don’t mean any offense or to suggest tameness. But it’s the most accurate description I have for them. As long as you behave yourself, then there’s no worries.”

“Hakuna matata.” He answers.

“Exactly.”

While Stiles hums the song under his breath, he thinks about Mandalei’s description of the Hale pack which leads him down to his memories of Derek. The guy never did seem like he had all the answers to, well, anything. Derek had no idea what Jackson even was when he didn’t transform into a werewolf. That and when Derek started his pack, the guy had no clue how to even connect with them emotionally. Boyd and Erica tried to abandon their pack. Communicating by brushing off his betas, keeping things to himself, and throwing them around for training really didn’t inspire loyalty. Maybe, he should say something to Peter, who he knows is back for break since the guy emailed him as soon as he drove within the town limits. He can’t wait till smartphones start circulating, and he’d even told his mom to just trust him when he mentioned buying some cheap stock from Apple and Google.

“So, mom was okay with me staying till late at night?” Both his voice and face embody the definition of skepticism.

“We’re not staying till midnight.” Mildly, chiding. “We’ll only greet the Alpha and her second to start. Also, I have Claudia’s phone number should she need to check up on us or for me to call you back home with a forty-minute head start.”

“Seriously? Huh… Okay.” He picks up the bottoms of his cloak to walk alongside Mandalei. “So when am I gonna start on spells or wards? Ooh, can I learn how to levitate? Maybe, bend a spoon?”

“The levitation will mostly take more practice on your part. You have been increasing the weight of the objects you’re lifting, right?” A nod and purposely ignored the last question, why would anyone want to bend a spoon? “Just continue with that, but don’t push for too much if you can’t. Your magic is maturing, and it’ll settle down during or after puberty. The same can be said for making or establishing wards. Both you and Spokój need to have your magicks finely tuned with one another, hence the maturation period.” She pauses in her stride. “While I doubt either of you are capable of any tracking or defense wards, I could let you practice on wards that promote luck or wish good health. They don’t need a lot of power behind them, as long as you place belief behind it. And honestly, the stronger wards have requirements that neither your mom nor I are comfortable with for a ten-year old.”

“That’s fair.”

In a few minutes, they arrive at the border of Beacon Hills. Since they might have some time, Mandalei suggests that they finish the rest of the food they packed and rehydrate. After they’ve settled down, they start recounting some of the events of the day, Mandalei asking Stiles’ opinions on the creatures and how both he and Spokój felt throughout. The two had been having more private conversations between them, and it seemed to get easier the longer they did it that Stiles confessed to having two conversations at once without losing any concentration — a feat that impressed Mandalei enough for her to dole out a fond hair ruffle.

As the sky darkens between dusk and twilight, the two Sparks stay seated on the picnic blanket and quieted down at the sound of running and rustling underbrush. Stiles covers himself with hood and mask; a hand on Spokój. Meanwhile, Mandalei only glances once at Neru who’d perched on a tree over-looking their picnic area.

Suddenly, two large wolves appear: one black and the other a mix of gunmetal grey and slightly, rusted copper. The black wolf was a foot taller and more sleek in its shape, while the other wolf had a slightly more muscular yet lean build. Based on their eyes, Stiles could tell the black one was the Alpha and the other a Beta, who’d lost some form of innocence or committed an act it believed to be so terrible that its mindset caused the change in coloration from sun yellow to ice blue.

Stiles takes his cue from Mandalei and stays seated when she makes no move to stand. But he can’t help but angle his head in question when he sees her reaching for two extra blankets, until he looks back at the wolves and is faced with the very naked visages of Talia and Peter Hale.

Both siblings have sharp, handsome features, except for a few differences in coloration. Talia had dark hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin. Peter had dark hair that was just a bit lighter, or maybe he’d had a dye job, with lighter eyes and a yellowish-tan to his skin tone —probably hitting the beach too often while he was at Berkley. Their smiles on the other hand were incredibly identical, even and white teeth that had pointed edges to their canines. Stiles can see where his Derek got the strong jawline from.

“Thank you.” Talia accepts the blankets and passes the other to Peter. “It’s good to see you again, Mandalei.” A sentiment mirrored by Peter’s inclined head, respectful.

“And you, Talia. Peter.” Mandalei smiles and she motions for the wolves to take their own seats on the blanket, the arrangement resulting in the wolves and humans on separate sides, facing each other. 

After wrapping themselves up in deference to the humans, the two wolves simultaneously glance at Stiles’ red-hooded figure engulfed in a blood red cloak, curious and slightly amused.  

Peter smirks: “Hey, Stiles! Or should I call you Red Riding Hood?”

Stiles’ jaw drops, and his eyes bug out when Peter reaches out and lifts the hood up with a clawed finger. At the smug face, his own sours. Knowing the jig is up, Stiles takes the hood and scarf off, leaving his face bare.

Spokój unwinds a little to become like a loose second layer of scarf over Stiles’ shoulders and moves his head closer to Stiles’ cheek. Thin, dark eyes glare back at the cause of his human’s indignation.

Said cause aims his own laser focus on the pipefox. “Interesting.”

A snap of still growing fingers brings everyone’s attention back to the boy. “How did you know it was me?”

An unimpressed eyeroll. “Do you really need to ask?” Interrupting the boy before he can interject, Peter raises a finger. “One, a young new Spark who just moved in.” Another finger. “Two, who is the closest mature Spark within driving distance.” He points to Mandalei, and raises a self-satisfied eyebrow.

“But I smell different!”

A sniff. “What? Do you think wolves only think by smell?”

The two women clear their throats to ease the tension.

Mandalei sighs and shakes her head. “If I might interject…” At this she stares, a reprimand, at Peter. “As I was saying, Alpha Hale, I’d like to introduce to you my apprentice, who you will refer to as Spark Ogień even if,” she raises her voice over Peter’s beginning protests, “you might know my apprentice differently. This is for Ogień’s protection.”

Talia steps forward and acquiesces with a regal nod. “Of course, Mandalei.” She sends a motherly smile to Stiles. “May I?” She asks while reaching for his wrist.

“Uh, Yeah. Yes.” He offers his open palm and wrist.

As Alpha, Talia politely sniffs first, a barely felt breath over the skin. Peter, always the mischief-maker, takes a longer sniff. His nose lightly touching the vulnerable veins, and his lips twitching in a pretense of baring his teeth.

The ritual only needs to be done once since wolves never forget a scent the first time around, Stiles knows this but has to physically restrain the shiver that passes him when Peter takes his turn. Spokój brushes the tip of his tail lightly at the knob of Stiles’ spine, comforting.

“We welcome you, Spark Ogień, into our territory, and hope you find yourself comfortable here. As protectors of this land, we Hales promise asylum to you and yours should you need it.” Talia nods solemnly, copied by Peter who adds a cheeky wink, because he’s Peter. 

Stiles nods back, a twitchy, nervous action. He can’t look at Talia’s eyes. They shine like how Derek’s used to. “Thank you, Alpha Hale.”

“Are we finally done the formalities?” The blue-eyed wolf asks petulantly.

In response, Talia rolls her eyes and sends a scolding glance to her younger brother.

Mandalei laughs and smiles.

 

****

 

Claudia picks Stiles and Spokój up, and by the time they get home, it’s exactly eight o’clock at night. She sits herself at the dining table with files strewn about, while Stiles walks to the kitchen. 

“Good lesson with Dr. Jelen?” 

“You do know that I know that both of you are on a first name basis?” He asks while looking through the cabinets. “Anything you want for dinner?”   

“Whatever’s good with me."

“Tofu stir fry it is.” 

She winces and pastes a pained smile. “Sure. Sounds… healthy.” 

He grins at her, cheeky. 

“At least use some soy sauce or msg. Humans were born with tastebuds, Szczepan.” 

“Actually, I found this cool but really sad article where this person’s taste buds didn’t develop right. They could eat the fanciest or greasiest piece of food, but it all tasted the same. It’s like having a cold 24/7 without the actual cold part. Sometimes I’d wonder-” As he’s talking, Stiles has been readying ingredients left and right until all that’s left is to stir the food occasionally. 

Once she sees that he’s finished, she reminds him: “You didn’t answer my question.” She yells after his rushing form. “And where’re you going? You don’t wanna eat?” 

“Gimme a second! Just… wanna… change first.” He says with thumps and stomping and crashing noises following his words. 

Claudia loves her son, but she’s not worried of the noise since this is the same thing that happens every time he tries to rush through changing his clothes. Although why he feels the need to rush, she has no idea and goes back to the files, taking notes in the copy’s margins. 

Running down the steps- “No running down the stairs!” his mom yells, but he’s already reached the living room floor. 

“Today’s lesson was so cool!” Stiles exclaims while serving both him and his mom some dinner. “I got to meet Brownies-” He feeds pieces of the vegetables to Spokój and blocks him from any tofu. 

“Brownies?” 

“-then there were the hobgoblins, gnomes” 

“Hobgob- Gnomes.” Deadpan. 

“Oh! And there’s Treebeard-” 

“From Lord of the Rings?” 

“Sorta, but not really. Well, he’s a Leshiye, so I nicknamed him Treebeard.” 

“Makes sense.” She picks up a piece of tofu apprehensively, but lights up at the flavorful bite. 

“The last ones were the werewolves.” 

At the scrape of a fork, Stiles looks back at his mom’s fearful face. 

“Like the kind that eat people?” She puts her fork down and gestures for a time out. “I thought Mandalei said you weren’t going to be in any danger? And why aren’t you letting Spokój have any tofu? And explain more about the brownies, hobgnomes-” 

“Hobgoblins, then gnomes.” He gets up to fetch the iced tea and pours his mom some. 

“Yes, those… stuff. Thank you.” 

“Sure. And sorry.” Abashed. “Got a little too excited.” 

Spokój slithers to wrap himself around Stiles’ left arm and dips down to lap at the tea. 

So Stiles explains to his mom the wonders of the creatures he’s met. How the Leshiye looked like a more hairy-version of Treebeard from Lord of the Rings, and that the werewolves:

“They live in Beacon Hills!”

“It’s okay, Mama. They’re the protectors.”

“Do any of them where Sheriff county badges?”

“... No, but I’m pretty sure the Alpha is the DA.”

“...” 

It takes some time to convince her that the werewolves are not going to kill people during the full moon, since the only time that would happen is if an Omega came through. To which he then has to start explaining pack hierarchy and hunters. He especially appreciates her glower at the description of the hunters, but all throughout his explanation, a phantom pain settles in his gut resulting in a burgeoning headache. It took him forever before he thought he should tell his dad about the supernatural, and now here he is regularly talking about his magic lessons with his mom. The guilt is familiar, and painful in the reminder but comforting-- like an old scar, a life lived made the more difficult to forget. 

Finished with dinner, they clean up the dishes side-by-side. As Stiles starts back to the stairs, a hand on his shoulder stops him and pulls him into a comfortable side hug. 

“I can’t say I understand all of this magic stuff, but I’m really glad you have someone to guide you through it. My memories of your great grandmother are pretty vague, since I mostly got to know her in my developing years.” 

He squeezes back, smooshing his cheek on her arm, while Spok fills in the empty spaces between them.“Thanks for understanding and supporting me, mom. You’re the coolest.” 

“I want that commemorated on a mug.” 

Stiles nods in answer, since he’s already got the one he made as a favor from his art teacher hidden away in his closet. It’d fit better for mother’s day, but well, his mom’s birthday is coming up, so.   

As Claudia lets her son go, she remembers. “By the by, you’ve got a package!” She walks off to a decently sized box, cardboard and square, that reaches her knees. “I didn’t open it.” 

Stiles looks and takes the boxcutter. With his mom’s permission, he opens it and the first thing he sees is a letter with his name, real name, written across in neat, sharp penmanship. The letter is held in the tight space between a large plush wolf and fox. He pulls out the letter first and recognizes the handwriting as Peter’s. Deciding to read it later, he hands it to Spokój, the pipefox holding the card in his mouth. Next, he pulls out the plush animals with their incredibly soft, smooth faux furs, and cuddly bodies; already, he can tell they’ll be perfect for sleepy or awake-y cuddle times.. 

“Aww, they’re cute.” She crouches down to better see the shiny black eyes of the fox and the marble-blue eyes of the wolf.

The fox is a reddish orange with brown-black legs and paws, its tail puffy with a white tip to match its white underbelly, eye borders, and lower jaw. The wolf has a dark-grey color with ears and face marked with light brown, its tail not as puffy but still soft to the touch. 

“Do you know who they’re from?”

Stiles shows the envelope, gesturing to the ‘From: Peter’.

“Well, that’s nice of him. You know I wasn’t so sure at first about getting you a babysitter, but I was so desperate to make sure you wouldn’t be left alone at home, I just said okay. Probably one of my better decisions, huh.” Claudia pets the stuffed animals, while keeping the other hand on Stiles’ head to pet his hair.

“It wasn’t a bad choice.” Stiles wants to huff and puff at the two toys, maybe write a sarcastic letter to Peter, but honestly, he likes how comforting it is to pet them. A judgment Spokój echoes as he starts twisting himself round and round the two plushies. “I’m gonna go to bed. It’s been a long day.” 

“Alright. Don’t forget to thank Peter when you see him.” She pecks him on the forehead. “Good night, Szeczepan. Sweet dreams.” She presses a short kiss to Spokój’s head, as well. “Good night, Spokój. I know I can count on you to always protect my boy when I can’t be there.” The pipefox yips in agreement. 

Stiles stands on his tiptoes while his mom is bent down, a kiss on her cheek. “G’night, mom. Don’t stay up too long looking at cases all night, even if you are the best detective at the Sheriff’s department.” 

“Flatterer.” Claudia smiles gently at him and rubs his back once before she straightens up. “Go on.” Sometimes, she wonders if she made the right decision to go back to law enforcement. While the choice was made at first for purely financial reasons, working as a teacher in Beacon Hills elementary is a considerably safer job than say dealing with criminal cases, but the bills need to be paid.

After Stiles brushes his teeth, he reads through Peter’s letter in his room, surprised that they were for his eighth and ninth birthday --most of those days he spent at home or just with his mom, forgetting the rest of the world. He wonders what the twenty-one year old got him for his tenth birthday, then. A look back at the plushies and he places the letter on his bookshelf, his attention elsewhere.

“Hmm… names. I could always go with the classic Wolfy and Foxy.” At this suggestion, he turns to Spokój and is amused at the vehement head-shake he receives. “Okay, okay. The wolf reminds me of Peter’s form, so… Crazy? Nah, it’d be mean since he’s not really _that_ Peter. That and bad associations." At that announcement he goes quiet, his eyes distant and lost if not for the nip Spok gives him. "Uh, moving on to the fox. How about… _The Fox and the Hound_ names? Nah, too sad.” Stiles flops down on his bed, leaving the two plushies to flank him, absentmindedly petting them. “Oh, I got it! Fox’s name can be Wiley- not the coyote and Wolf’s name can be Nix cuz wolf, moon, night-time shenanigans.” Satisfied with the names, he fluffs his pillow a bit and closes his eyes finding comfort in Spokój’s weight curled on his chest. “G’night, Spok,” he mumbles.

  
“ _Good night, Stiles.”_

 

****

 _He’s running through the woods._

_Lost. Aimless._

_His feet trip over a root, and he runs into a tree, rough bark scratching his palms and knees._

_“What?” Shaking his head to clear it, he looks around at the familiar clearing. “Where’s the-?”_

_The stump is gone. It should be right, here._

_Dawning realization shocks him, frozen. His hands stay on the tree as he looks up at thick branches, the leaves a bioluminescent green, and a spread of mushrooms or fungi glowing a matching bright green around the area. Fireflies swarm, and the illumination builds to blinding._

_He shuts his eyes tight._

_  
_ And opens them wide to see his ceiling and Spokój hovering over his face, his breathing fast and frantic. Slowly, he releases the white-knuckled grip he has on his twisted bedsheets.Turning on his side, he clutches Wiley close and uses his other hand to pull Nix behind him. Spokój wraps around the wrist closer to Wiley. He’s still tired and sleep is worth trying for. __‘I’ll deal with it in the morning.’_ _

 

****

 

“You want me to do what?” Peter asks incredulously at the ten-year old. 

“Did I stutter?” Stiles asks, a heavy sass to his tone. Spokój, mimicking an arm band, peaks out and glowers at the wolf. 

Affronted and amused at the tone, Peter doesn’t hold back his smile. In a simpering tone: “It’s nice to see you too. How’ve you been? Me? I graduated a year early.” He shrugs. “Decided to take a year off to do some internships and then go back for law school, so I came back home.” Smiling back at Stiles’ unimpressed face. “And the first person I greet after my family is this _magical_ kid who decided I was his favorite babysitter-” 

“You were my _only_ babysitter. Besides, I turned double digits this year, which you know! I don’t need a babysitter anymore.” 

Ignoring him, “Here I am, hoping he’s just as happy to see me as I am to see him, but then his first words are-” 

“Peter!” Stiles whines and pouts. 

Peter, smile a tad bit wider, spreads his arms out. “Come on~” he wheedles. 

The boy grumbles as he trudges gracelessly, only to break out in a running jump. 

But the werewolf is ready and hardly exclaims at the sudden force of ten-year old flying at him. 

Stiles lands right on Peter’s torso and clings like a monkey, the boy’s arms over the adult’s shoulders, while Peter holds Stiles just as tightly and swings him around in dizzying circles, making the boy laugh. 

After they’ve both gotten their equilibrium back, Stiles hugs Peter even tighter. “Thanks for the presents.” 

Peter sets Stiles down and ruffles the boy’s hair. “You’re welcome.” 

“Now, take me to Deaton’s.” And the hallmark moment is ruined. 

“I drive by and offer to take you anywhere for a late birthday present, and you wanna go to the vet’s?” 

“Yep.” 

Knowing that they’d end up standing around the Stilinski’s driveway if he doesn’t give in, Peter walks back to the car followed by Stiles (and Spokój). “I’m taking you there, but then I pick where we go next.” 

“What if I don’t wanna go wherever you wanna go?”A faux pout, trying to hide a grin. 

“Too bad, so sad. A once in a lifetime offer.” He starts the car. “Seatbelts.” Peter looks back at the grinning boy, and tilts his head at the coiled ‘armband’. “What about your friend?” 

“He’s fine.”

Peter shrugs, trusting the boy. 

 _“Do we really need to meet this Deaton guy?”_ Spokój asks, his body coiled around Stiles’ shoulder, and his head resting on the boy’s collarbone.  

 _“Yes, we need to meet him.”_ Stiles answers, his forefinger petting the pipefox’s head.  

 _“Is this about your dream?”_  

 _“...Yeah.”_  

 _“You never did get a chance to tell me.”_  

Stiles leans his head on the window, watches listlessly as the scenery passes by. He rests his hand under Spokój’s chin. _“Remind me again, later.”_  

Sending his boy a worried gaze, the pipefox nuzzles his human’s neck. _“Yeesh, only ten and you’ve already got a bad memory.”_ He nips his human’s neck, teasing.  

The ten-year old smiles wide. _“Shut up.”_  

Peter observes all this in his periphery, but it’s not long before they arrive at the vet’s office. Before they go in, Stiles stops the other with a tug on his shirt. “Would you mind waiting out here?” 

He blinks at the request. “Aren’t we just here to see the baby animals?” 

“I am.” Stiles drags Peter back to the car, or at least, he tries to. “Peter, please.” 

Peter sighs and drags his fingers through his hair. “Fine, I’ll be right out here. If you need me, just whisper.” Finally, he lets himself be dragged back to stand by his car. 

“Stay.” 

“Not a dog.” Peter retorts, twisting the boy’s nose a little. 

Disgruntled at the treatment of his human, Spokój retaliates with a sharp bite at the twisting fingers. 

“Ow!” 

Stiles runs quickly back to the entrance door, checking to make sure Spokój was in place before entering, the bell over the door ringing. There’s no one by the counter and he wonders for a second if he shouldn’t have come, but then he notices the back door --which he knows leads to the exam table and some of Deaton’s disguised ingredients-- open to show him just the man he’s looking for. 

“Welcome, my name is Dr. Alan Deaton.” The man smiles benignly, his teeth a stark white, and his face conveys friendliness so strongly, Stiles can see how the man could come across as harmless. 

 _‘Huh, I guess the shaved-head look was always a thing.’_  

 _“Stiles, this Deaton guy just asked you a question.”_ Spokój’s voice brings him back to the moment.  

 _“What was the question?”_  

 _“How-“_  

“Excuse me, are you alright?” The vet’s expression turns worried at the boy’s distracted silence. 

“Wh- Uh, yeah. Sorry. I-I just… Umm…” Stiles rambles, cursing his lack of planning. He looks around to see if inspiration can smack him in the face, but all he sees is the familiar set-up of the vet’s clinic and the bad memories that comes with it. 

 _“Stiles?”_ Spokój hopes his voice is enough, since he can’t exactly move from his position.

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, releases it in a long slow exhale. When he opens his eyes, he’s met with a Deaton who’s moved closer to him, a hand reached out. 

“Son, are you sure you’re-“ 

“I have a question.” Stiles interrupts, hides his shaking hands in his jeans’ pockets. 

Deaton stops. Now standing closer, the man can sense something about the boy, but it's subdued. The vet brings his smile back, tinged with wariness. “Ask away.” 

He clears his throat. “So you’re an Emissary, right?” 

Shocked at the statement, Deaton stayed silent, except for his eyes growing wide. “Excuse me?” 

“Do-“ 

The two are interrupted with Peter’s sudden entrance, a smile highlighting his face. “Hi, Deaton.” 

“Peter.” He glances back at Stiles. “Pardon me, young man, but I have an appointment with-“ 

Another interruption from Peter. “He knows. It’s okay.” 

Boggled, the man can only exclaim. “‘He knows?” Doubtful. “Is your sister aware of what you’ve told-“ 

“Yes. I made sure to tell her myself.” Peter rolls his eyes. He looks back at Stiles, who’s turned a heavily disappointed face at him. “Stiles,” the man turns to the boy and crouches to level with him, “Hey, I was just trying to help.” 

“Everything was fine till you walked in.” The boy pouts and refuses to meet the werewolf’s eyes. 

“Oh, really.” Sarcastic. “So your heart rate going up like a rocket to the moon meant everything was just peachy keen.” 

“The bell ringing surprised me.” 

A raised brow. “That was a _blatant_ lie. You usually do better than that.”  

The boy’s mouth wrinkles, annoyed because it’s true, he usually does do better at the half-lies. Looking up, meeting the other’s familiar blues, he decides to be mature about the situation by yanking on Peter’s growing goatee. 

“Ow! What was-“ 

“You deserve it, so no complaints.” Noticing where they are, he suggests: “We should probably move somewhere private and not.” He flaps a limp hand at the waiting area where they’re standing in a conspicuous circle. 

Peter heads straight to the metal doors to the exam room. 

Before Stiles could warn him about the mountain ash barrier, the werewolf simply strolled through the entrance, no obstruction or barrier in the way. He steals a quick glance at Deaton but the guy’s too busy following after Peter in a huff. Which leads to the question, why did the guy need to protect himself from werewolves? Was it because it was after the fire? But he must have known about the surviving Hales. The boy roughly yanked at his hair and released his grip, quickly. He moved the free hand to feel Spokój on his left arm. 

 _“Stiles? What's going on?”_ Spokój asks, the agitation from his human bleeding back to him. 

 _“I-I have no idea… I’m just.”_  

 _“Okay. Stay calm, Stiles. The more agitated you get, the less you can think clearly. Breathe. I know you don't want either of them seeing you in that state.”_ Spokój sends the memory of his panic attack at the hospital. 

He was right, so Stiles stopped before the doors. 

The two men were conversing with low voices in the room. 

In through his nose, out through his mouth. Chest rising, lungs expanding. Abated just enough to extend a bit of his time spent in the vet’s clinic. Light, amber eyes observe the tableau marking the ingredients he recognises and doesn't. He decides. 

“You’re a Druid.” It wasn't a question. 

The two men bring their attention back to the boy. One gaze scrutinised, while the other was curious and intrigued. 

“You told him that, too?” Deaton asks Peter, who doesn't answer. The werewolf’s eyes focused on Stiles. 

“Druids are people who have magic working with nature, the earth. Like magical hippies. ” 

“I wouldn’t say-” 

Deaton protests, but Stiles manfully ignores it and Peter’s burst of laughter. “But you’re the kinda hippies that don’t actively get involved with things, right? No protesting the war. No, singing kumbaya-- asking for some ‘world peace, dude’.” He imitates a good copy of Tommy Chong’s voice. 

The veterinarian is left gawping, while Peter is clutching his stomach, bent over from laughing too hard. 

“Wanna know how I know this stuff?” 

“From Peter?” The man aims an incredulous look at the wolf hiccoughing. 

Stiles waves an uncaring hand. “Yeah, sure. But nature is your magic or it at least helps it right?” 

“I am the Druid Emissary to the Hale Pack.” Deacon states with a comfortable authority. 

 _‘Way to answer the question without answering it.’_ Stiles grumbles internally, while Spokój tenses. “Have you checked on the Preserve?” 

At the question, Peter immediately stops laughing. His head tilts, animalistic in his focus. 

Deaton, trying to maintain his cool in the face of Stiles’ mix of rambling statements and focused accusations, starts to step incrementally closer to the boy. “I don’t see how the Preserve is any of your business.” 

Bullheaded and unwilling to give up an inch, Stiles stands firm. “Aside from the fact that I’ve got one of my closest friends staying there,” which makes Peter perk up, “and the fact that you’re in charge of keeping it okay. Yeah, it’s my business.” 

At the reminder of a third party in the room, Deaton stops himself and doesn’t need to take a glance back to know the wolf is now watching his every move very closely. “I see.” The vet paints a practiced smile on his face. “Your concern is admirable, for one so young. I always dutifully check the land.” 

“And we’ll come along next time.” Peter interjects, moving closer to Stiles. “After all, it’s our land. We should really know more about how to take care of it.” He ruffles the boy’s hair, but keeps his eye on the Emissary. His eyes flicker blue so quickly, if you blinked you’d miss it. 

Deaton’s hands cross behind his back. “Of course,” a tilt of the head bares his neck. 

The tense atmosphere in the room stays until the sound of the entrance bell rings. 

 _‘Saved by the bell.’_ Stiles tugs at the bottom of Peter’s shirt. He looks at Deaton one more time, before pasting his own smile, he knows is childish and innocent with hints of mischief. “That’s all I had to say. Nice meeting you, Dr. Deaton.” A dismissal, he walks out of the room and the building without glancing back.  

Peter waves back, seemingly absent minded, and follows the boy back to his car. Once they’re both inside and buckled, Peter starts driving. He takes a glance with his periphery at Stiles’ silent form, and much as he’d like to sate his curiosity, he knows the boy well-enough that it’s better to just wait it out, so he plays the radio. 

Stiles stares out at the scenery passing by, his thoughts occupying him. Rubbing under the pipe fox’s chin, he wordlessly asks the other to move closer. This prompts Spokój to slither up over and across Stiles’ shoulder to wrap himself neatly around the boy’s neck, a layered choker. 

An hour or so passes by, and Peter stops the car to park in a fairly empty looking lot. They’ve stopped at a beach, probably somewhere closer to San Francisco but not actually in it. 

“We’re here.” This time Peter tugs on Stiles’ plaid shirt, distracting him from staring out at the barely populated beach.

“And where is _here_?” He gets out of the car, slightly confused but also interested. 

“‘From there to here, and here to there, funny things are everywhere.’” Peter replies, gaily. His arms outspread in obvious enthusiasm.   

At the reply, Stiles stares back at the adult and gives a slow blink, like a cat, expressing ‘what the hell is wrong with you?’. 

To which Peter answers with jazz hands. 

Stiles covers his face, but the sides of his mouth visibly move up and to the sides. Mirthful, amber looks back at relieved, ocean blue. 

“I didn’t say anything about ‘funny’ stuff.” 

“Ah-ha! But you’re still smiling, and-” he sniffs, “-you smell amused.” 

“Stop smelling me.” Stiles grumbles. 

“Hard not to.” His nose wrinkles, exaggerated. 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Yes, it is.” 

“You were supposed to say yah-huh.” A clear ‘duh’ in his tone. 

“But I’m the adult.” An unapologetic shrug. 

“An adult who references Dr. Seuss.” 

“Dr. Seuss is brilliant, and I won’t accept otherwise.” 

Done with the banter, the ten-year old hums and rolls up his jeans into shorts, sneakers and socks in hand. He heads to the shore and leaves footsteps on the sand. Peter wore cargo shorts and flip flops, the cheater. 

Aside from the two of them, an elderly couple and one other elderly person can be seen on the beach. The couple are a pretty good distance away, absorbed in each other, while the other elderly person is getting up to leave. White sands, fairly clear and light blue Pacific waters, Soothing sounds of crashing waves interspersed with few sounds of cawing gulls and a screech of a falcon. Their silhouettes a stark black amidst light blue sky and shaping rays of sunlight to appear glancingly. 

Stiles digs his toes into soft, wet sand —submerging his feet and wetting his ankles. “Dad would’ve really liked this place.” He crosses his arms, lost in two memories. The hand on his head brings him back to the here and now. But wishing the hand were bigger and older, roughened from handling guns but always gentle with an arm around the shoulder, patting his shorn hair. A sniff and the wet trails coming down his face surprise him. 

Positioning a handkerchief to the boy’s nose, he pinches it lightly. A noise like an elephant trumpeting fills the space. “Should I have not brought you here?”

The boy shakes his head. “No! It’s- I’m okay.” A shaky but genuine smile. “My dad and I loved the ocean a lot.”

 _‘We planned all these trips, but as the lies got worse and the situations grew tense, we had a lot less time to go.’_   

 _“Is the ocean that nice?”_ Spokój asks. After opening one eye to check the coast was clear, he opens his eyes wide at the view.

 _“You’ve never seen the ocean before?”_ The boy sits on the sand. Hands cupped, he gathers some water and brings it closer to the pipefox.  

Curious, Spokój laps at the water and spits it out, his tongue hanging limp. _“Blergh! It’s salty.”_

Stiles and Peter laugh at the creature’s reaction. 

Peter asks: “Has your friend never seen the ocean before?”

A shrug. “That’s what he said.”

“He?” Peter moves his face closer, “how can you tell? And when did he say something?” 

Spokój whips his tail out, but Peter’s reflexes help him dodge only resulting in a slight tickle across his nostrils. The wolf sneezes. 

The boy laughs since the adult looks like a dog, confused at the fact it could sneeze. Smiling, he scratches under Spokój’s chin. “I never introduced you two, did I?”

The wolf rubs the side of his forefinger across his nose. “Not really, no.”

Stiles uses the hand under Spokój’s face and uses the other to pick up Peter’s wrist. He brings the two together, mock hand-shake. “Spokój meet Peter. Peter meet Spokój.” Looking at Peter’s bemused face, he smiles brightly. “Sometimes I call him Spok.” 

Spokój eyes the foreign hand warily before carefully sniffing it.

Peter eyes Spokój back and leans forward. “Can I…?” 

Stiles sends a thought to Spokój to ask if he’d mind. Answered with a negative, the boy nods his permission. 

The werewolf sniffs lightly, the smell of petrichor and honeysuckle coming through. “You mentioned earlier that Spokój?” Met by laughter, he takes the easier route. “That Spok ‘said’ something? What, do you speak in squeaks and yips?”

Angry yips and barks follow Peter’s statement, to which he raises a brow as if his point had already been proven.

Not willing to divulge everything, Stiles answers safely. “We understand each other.” Boy and pipefox make eye contact before glancing back at the wolf.

“Okay. Are you going to tell me what all _that_ was at the clinic?”

The sudden transition doesn’t surprise Stiles except for the fact he expected Peter to ask him earlier. “When Mandalei told me about Druids and your guys’ Emissary, I just wondered what type of Druid they were. You know, whether they’re passive or active.”

Aware of the slight omissions and white-lies, Peter lets it go and teases the boy: “Aww~ Just admit it Stiles. You were worried about me, weren’t you?” He pokes the boy’s mole-marked cheek.

His head turns, teeth snapping at the faulting finger. Letting the finger flee, he frowns at the other. “So, what? Am I supposed to not care about what happens to my friends and their families?” Walking off in a huff, he declares: “I’m hungry, now.” 

Shaking his head at the boy’s dramatics, Peter gets up and brushes the sand off.

___________

 

Stiles looks at the arrangement of things surrounding him, Spokój coiled around his wrist.

Mandalei stands to the side with Neru perched on a light fixture. “Now, let’s see which element suits you best.”

The two boys grin wide, teeth bared. Their irises glowing the same shade of two-toned purple and yellow-orange; their pupils constrict in response to the increasing brightness.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the wonderful kudos, bookmarks, and comments! Life has been kicking me in the kidneys, so yeah.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's good to get a different perspective.

He was three-years old when they moved to Beacon Hills. Maybe, that’s when everything started falling apart.

Only. 

It really wasn’t all bad. After all, he’s got his mom, Miss Claudia, “Call me Auntie Cloud,”and a Stiles, “Trust me, Scotty. This is way easier than my real name.”

And he says what he means, and he means what he says. No, he’s not an elephant. But he’s definitely one-hundred percent.

Said Stiles, the first time they officially met.

The older boy was wearing a red hoodie and some kind of fuzzy necklace thingy Scott had never really seen before. Homemade, maybe? It looked cool, a burnt sienna on eye-catching red. 

Scott is seven-years old, and he laughs at the older boy --skinny and tall in that way you can tell is gonna grow taller-- his mom introduces him to. He’s snarky in the smart and laid back kinda way that doesn't make Scott feel less but lucky to have it be a part of his life.

His parents finally made the divorce official, and Scott doesn’t know if he should feel relieved or sad his dad is gone. Even if he can’t hear them arguing anymore, he can still hear his mom crying and she doesn’t want him to see her that way, so he tries to pretend. He’s happy on the outside. As friendly as can be. 

But he’s the kid who can’t run for five-minutes without needing a puff from his inhaler. 

He was four-years old. Playing in the sandbox, the most normal cliche location to find a future best friend for life or love of your life. He tries to talk to the other kids but they all have their own friends. Friends because their moms or families are friends. They’ve got older brothers and sisters who’re friends who introduced them to other little brothers and sisters. Friends.

There was a red-haired girl, smart and pretty, but she doesn’t talk to him because he’s neither as smart nor as pretty as her. Another kid like him who was alone, he seemed angry at the world, except for his friend and the red-haired girl. He didn’t notice the little blond boy with bruises barely showing on his legs or the cracks on his fingernails, alone and hiding. So, he played in the sandbox —alone. The inhaler in his pocket his only friend.

And now, he’s got a Stiles.

Stiles doesn’t know it, but this isn’t the first time Scott’s met him. Technically, he saw him first —in a completely non-creepy way. Really. It wasn’t creepy. He was turning three in September that same year.

He doesn’t tell Stiles that when he saw him at the hospital with his mom, he wanted to offer him his inhaler. When the older boy’s breaths started hiccuping and he clutched his chest tight, head in his hands, Scott felt less alone. He was two going on three, and he’d always wanted to befriend the other boy who’s breath wanted to escape, who’s lungs would seize, who’d sobbed at the loss of a parent, who’d tried to smile and be strong for his mom. They weren’t the same.

They were similar.  

_‘I wish…’_

His wish came true, and he only had to wait a handful of years for it to happen.

“Con el tiempo todo se consigue,” his Abuelita used to say, said his mom. (“Patience is a remedy for every sorrow.”) 

Dad left because work was more important.

Mom stayed because Scott was more important than work and Rafael.

Now, he’s here on his living room carpet, playing Mario with Stiles. Stiles who was older and taller with an upturned nose and spots all over his face. Stiles, his friend who played games with him, who talked and listened to him, who looked out for him and babysat him when his mom got too busy. 

He doesn’t have his dad, but that’s okay. He’s got his mom’s smile back. He’s got Auntie Cloud, who gives hugs as good as his mom’s. He’s got Stiles, a best friend he never thought he could have and a big brother he always wanted to have. Life in Beacon Hills isn’t so bad.

 

 

****

 

 

He’s four-years old when he watches a man get shot in front of him. 

If you think in those moments that you could hear every scream, every skid of rubber sole on marble, and every shuffle of moving bodies then you’re wrong.

In those moments, everything is quiet. Silenced. Can’t even hear a pin drop, it’s so mute. But when one sense can’t keep up, the other’s step up to the plate. 

He felt the man’s body fall on him, dead weight he learns later. Warm, wet red life fluid, so dark it’s really more of a red-black-brown. The man’s kind blue eyes telling him: “You’ll be okay, son.” 

Later, when the shock blankets come off, he finds out the man who saved him was an off-duty cop. Sucks that the guy was on his off day, only to end up in a robbery and get shot because of a helpless kid.

His dad was so grateful, he called the dead cop’s family, and Jackson just stared balefully at it all. He knows his dad was just trying to show some gratitude, but come on. Seriously? Though it was cool to help the family keep the guy’s badge. 

Jackson doesn’t know why the guy did it. But he knows it’s not gratitude sitting heavy like a stone in his stomach. Feeling his heart jump up to his throat, the red on and around his eyes. Salty wet tracks traveling down his face. So he breathes deep, practices the blank-face of neutrality, even though the anger wins out most of the time. He’s been a Whittemore for how long, now?

On the day of the funeral, he officially sees the Stilinskis. A mom, no longer a wife. A son, no dad to call his. 

But when the freak storm hits, they run back to their cars and take a glance back at the families that stayed behind.

It’s been five-years since then, and now he’s nine-years old, standing in the living room being introduced to his new babysitter, “Call me Stiles.”

“What kinda name is Stiles?”

He’s met with a dimpled grin. “Why? Wanna try my real name?”

The younger shrugs.

With perfect inflection, pronunciation, and diction, Stiles says his name once and laughs at the confused and baffled face gradually growing on the kid as he spoke.

His cheeks turning pink, Jackson frowns heavily, a pout on his lower lip and a furrow on his brow. “It’s a weird name.” He expects indignation and embarrassment, but when the teenager goes quiet and straightens up, he’s firmly reminded of who’s actually in charge in this exchange. When the older boy starts to move forward, he starts to back up but Stiles was only putting down his backpack.

“I introduced myself, so…”

“I’m Jackson." 

“Jax then?” Face contorted in bewilderment.

“Nooo, Jack- _son._ ”

An exaggerated nose wrinkle. “Sounds weird.”

Indignant. “Is not!” It’s the only name his parents left for him.

A shrewd look enters the teen’s eyes. “Yeah. Your name is yours, right?”

Pausing, Jackson looks back, wherein dawning, light blue meets understanding, chocolate brown. The little boy nods, apologetic and his pride slightly hurt. “…Yeah.” He looks down at his shifting feet and misses the outreached hand that has a fuzzy bracelet around the wrist.

Before the hand makes contact, it hovers a good distance from little Jackson’s head. “May I?”

To which the boy looks up and holds back the reflexive flinch to the hand that’s still far from him. “What?”

“May I pat you on the head?”

“Oh.” He decides, mock-serious. “No.” 

A shrug. “Okay.” 

Surprised, Jackson reaches out his own hand before the other’s can fall and catches a finger. He lets it go when he feels a slight jump, like a shock. “I mean… I was kidding. Y-You can.” A scoff, “It’s just a pat on the head.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, okay?” He gestures impatiently. Expecting the hand, he no longer has the urge to flinch back.

As the hand continues to card through his hair, Stiles speaks: “It’s important, you know.”

“What is?” Jackson tilts his head, confused.

“Getting permission to touch people, especially if you don’t know them that well. The word for it is ‘consent’.”

He blinks. “Oh.” He cups his own chin, adorable in the way little kids usually are when wearing a serious face. Silence takes over the space, before Jackson’s eyes light up. “Ohh.” 

“Yeah, ‘ohh’ is right, buddy.” Stiles chuckles and ruffles the boy’s hair, once again.

And you know, he doesn’t hate Stiles, even if the guy did give him a nickname:

“I’m gonna call you Jax.”

“Fine, _Stiles_. Now, babysit me.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

“Standing there.”

“Oh, okay. Here-“ He runs away from the approaching butt, pretending to sit on him. His own laughter surprises him.

Even if he might not like the lessons at school, he knows better than to let his grades slip, so he holds on with two hands. The lessons from Stiles are a little more different, because he doesn’t have to take notes or score an ‘A’. All he needs to do is stop, listen, and think.

From his dad, he meets a pretty girl with red hair —who’s smart and snooty-- and a guy with a nice smile —who’s smart and calm--, and a Stiles with a fuzzy accessory —who’s smart and kinda cool, but he’ll never admit that.

From his babysitter, he gets to know the kids he’d been ignoring.

The first one being a boy with a crooked jaw who has bad asthma; they have the same babysitter, so he’s what they talk about most of the time. Jackson tries to tell Scott that he shouldn’t tell Stiles he’s cool, because it’s gonna make his head swell even if Jackson knows the guy is cool. It makes sense. 

The second one being a boy with short, blond curls who hid bruises behind his sleeves. Jackson might not have X-Ray vision, but he can hear the yells and cut-off screams. He can see the boy trying to hide his limp, or the tight grip the kid’s dad has around the smaller and thinner arm.

Before Stiles, he would’ve told himself it’s none of his business, so why should he say anything.

Now, he tells Stiles, who ends up telling his mom. Then Stiles gives him another hair ruffle, telling him he did good.

“As if I was trying to impress you.” Jackson retorts, but can’t hide the small smile on his face or the pink rising from his cheeks. He feels good. Accomplished in a way none of his school work or the Little League Lacrosse practices have ever left him feeling.

 

 

****

 

Everything hurts in the way old wounds are made anew. 

Maybe, it started when his mom died from giving birth to him. His older brother used to say their dad was different when she was around, but Isaac can’t really tell the difference. The competitive push; the strict but fair hand.

Then his brother died in active duty, and things were never the same. 

A year and some months have passed since, and only a few months since his dad started locking him in the basement freezer, at least it’s unplugged. If it was cold, he could curl up and shiver the time away, but it’s only him inside. The feeling of walls closing in, moving closer to crush him in darkness. The outside world gone, nonexistent. All he hears are his gasping breaths, hiccoughed sobs. Clawing at the walls does nothing but help him pass the time faster.

With every little thing he does— breathing, sleeping, existing— there is enough reason for his dad to justify the bruises, broken bones, and broken sobs.

The days when his father would smile or ruffle his hair have disappeared, like a warm breath in late winter months. There and gone, again.

He’s not sure if it should be considered a good or bad thing, but his dad never hits him where it shows. Isaac’s nine-years old and he knows this is the kinda stuff you tell your teachers or even the police about.

But.

His dad is all he has left. How’s he supposed to give that up? The pain was never so bad it hurt for long, nothing permanent. An arm bending back, a leg twisting out. Black and blue ribs, tender to touch. Even the nails that cracked when he scratched too hard at the inner walls of the freezer could heal, as long as the nail bed was still intact and they always were. 

What’s a few broken bones, as long as he can help his dad find the smile he used to give him. Even if the tears obscure his vision, just a ghost or whisper of happiness is something worth enduring for.

It’s the reason why he helps plant the flower beds around the cemetery. Some of the kids talk about how creepy he is, so he keeps his distance— both for the others’ comfort and in the hopes no one will notice him. Long sleeves and pants with a few layers to add-on, his own cotton and jean armor.

But now, he’s alone in the cemetery, so his sleeves are rolled up. Colors he doesn’t notice compared to the mix of flowers he has to plant. On the gravestone he’s working on today, it reads:

“Beloved husband and Father

Janusz ‘Johnathan’ Noah Stilinski

19 Jan 1963- 16 May 1997

We love you, always”

He remembers the day this person was buried, since nearly the whole town came by. That and the  freak lightning and thunderstorm. Even if he didn’t get a good look at the family, he knew they were the two dark shapes standing by the grave. They had the kind of love that can stand up to whatever nature can bring. It’s a love he’d like for himself.

As he reminisced, he picked up the specific group of flowers said family had asked to be planted. He didn’t know what they were, but they were a bright yellow on yellow. The petals on the thin side with a darker yellow center, which looked a bit like those dandelions that could grant wishes. His dad said differently, but there must be a reason people believed the idea.

So he makes a wish with the yellow flower and its dandelion center.

Lost in his musings, Isaac doesn’t notice the approaching footsteps is not three feet from him. Before he can fix his sleeves, he’s yanked upwards by his hoodie. The zipper digs into his throat making him cough.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here, huh?” The grip on the hoodie tightens and tugs him back and forth, like a caught kitten in a bigger dog’s mouth. 

He wheezes an answer. “Dad- I was just-” Another shake. 

“You-” 

With little warning, police cars flashing red and blue come silent but for the sound of rubber crunching gravel.

The time of day borders between the afternoon and night sky. They come out of the car, a deputy and a woman, dressed in a midnight blue suit. She goes to greet him. The occasion was so completely unexpected he forgets the purple, green, and yellow decorating his arms.

She only needs to look once. The hand-shaped bruises bigger and darker than any child’s. The split on his lip from the back of a hand wearing a ring.

“Mr. Lahey.”

His dad crosses his arms, a scowl on his face. “Who the heck are you?” 

She smiles perfunctorily and waves the officer closer. “Hi. I’m Detective Stilinski, and this is Deputy Nakamura.”

His dad huffs, annoyed as if this were a nuisance. “What do you want?”

He’s standing right in front of Isaac, blocking their view of him so the boy takes this chance to pull his sleeves down. But after a quick glance up, he sees both sets of the newcomer’s eyes already zeroed in on his bruises. It’s too late.

“We’ve got a report about a disturbance coming from your house.” Detective Stilinski pulls out a little notepad. “Let’s see. Screaming, very audible crying, and suspicions of some one-sided violent altercations. And all of that, _sir_.” She gives him a sharp look. “Adds up to a possible Domestic Disturbance, considering it’s just you and your kid at the house. Care to tell me and Deputy Nakamura here more about that?”

“Says who.”

“Your neighbours.”

An incredulous snort. “My neighbours? Don’t know ‘em. Don’t even talk to ‘em. You sure those reports are real, _detective_?” He sneers and moves forward to crowd the woman, but is blocked by the other Deputy. 

“Sir, we just want your full cooperation.”

“Cooperation, my ass. You harass me and my boy-”

As his dad starts on a rant at the blank-faced but stalwart officer, Isaac tries to cross his arms behind his back despite the pain of his arms being tightly curled behind him. 

“Hi.” Said a soft voice. It causes him to startle and releases the grip he has on his left elbow. The arm swings out and both child and woman look straight at the freed limb. 

Claudia is crouched down at a level where she can meet the child’s eyes.

Isaac shakes at the attention.

“Your name is Isaac, right?” She asks, voice still pitched soft. At most, she’s three or four feet from him, but she doesn’t try to move closer.

He glances up, shy and nervous. “Y-Yeah. I mean, yes.”

“Hi, Isaac.” 

He can’t help but make eye contact with the repeated greeting accompanied by his name, as if she’s acknowledging him as a person. “Hi.”

“I’m guessing you heard my whole intro with your dad. But you’re welcome to just call me Claud or Detective, whichever is more comfortable for you, okay?” 

“Oh, okay.” He blushes at the kindness coming from her. He wonders if she’s a mom, if maybe his mom was anything like this woman. He doesn’t know since his dad never liked to talk much about her.

“Hey!” At the fury in his dad’s voice, Isaac can’t help but flinch and back away. “He’s a stupid kid, what are you interrogating him for?”

“You’re right, Mr. Lahey.” Claudia responds, and Isaac flinches harder at the affirmation from the stranger. Guess his dad was right every time he called him stupid. 

“Interrogating a child, who I’m sure is fairly intelligent for his age, isn’t something I should be doing.”

Surprise and hope begin to rise in him, and Isaac can’t help his eyes getting a bit misty.

Claudia turns a sharp smile to the boy’s father. “You’re the ‘smart’ adult here, after all. So why don’t you tell me more about those bruises, and the sudden frequency of broken arms and legs young Isaac here has reported at the hospital?” 

His dad tries to argue back, but Isaac can see that neither the detective nor the officer are convinced. 

Quietly, he watches his dad being driven away in the back of a squad car, while he was given a ride by the Detective --Miss Claud-- to the hospital. 

The nurse they give him is nice and talks to him about her own son, they’re around the same age. He might know him, but he probably avoids him. She told him that he’s going to stay in the hospital for a little bit. The detective stays with him and a lawyer comes in to tell him what to expect— if he tells them everything, he’ll make sure his dad stays in prison for life.

Is that supposed to make him happy?

The room gets smaller. The walls closing in fast, almost as fast as his breathing.

Suddenly, his vision is flooded with the face of the detective. She’s telling him to breathe slow, in and out. To count from five backwards. She doesn’t touch him, but she keeps eye contact.

How can this stranger look at him and make him feel like more of a person, a kid. His dad used to look at him like that. His brother always used to look at him like that.

His eyes feel heavy and something keeps dripping down his cheeks onto his white-knuckled hands, gripping his shirt into a wrinkled mess.

A few days pass and the detective, the nurse, and his lawyer become a constant in the long, short time spent in a hospital room. White on white, with cream and light blue accents. He heals.

On the third day, his lawyer — “Hello, Isaac. My name is David Whittemore”— asks him one more time. At his request, Miss Claud stays in the room with him. He talks.

Later, he’ll ask if he’s going into the foster system. He’s not stupid: no family to take him in, no guardian to pass him onto.

Then Miss Claud asks him. 

His life has never been the same, not since his mom died, not since his brother died, and not since his dad disappeared to be replaced with a man wearing his face, carrying a heavy hand and a glower.

The house reminds him of every fairy tale he’s ever read: flowers of all colors spread wild, the presence of creatures walking by for no other reason than because. There he meets Miss Claud’s son — “Call me Stiles, or you know, whatever you feel like.”

“Okay.” He blinks his sky blue eyes and meets amber brown.

His life might never be the same, but he thinks this kinda love that can stand up to storms isn’t as far out of reach as he thought it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all are still liking the story! Please feel free to comment, kudos, bookmark, and subscribe to your hearts' desire.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walking a mile in someone else's shoes helps the time go by faster, but each step isn't idly wasted. More akin to a marker like footprints in the sand.

* * *

 

She doesn’t hate her parents, but she can’t honestly say she likes them very much, either.

Her dad spoils her rotten, but she doesn’t mind it. 

Her mom sent her grandmother to Eichen House, and she loved her grandmother, even if she ended up watching the woman drill a hole in her own head. That and her mom thinks she’s annoying, so she spoils her rotten, too, just to get her out of her perfectly styled hair . 

Lydia knows she’s not stupid (it helps to have a genius IQ rating), but she knows she’s a walking cliché.

So she dons it like armor. Dresses herself in the best, expensive clothes and accessories. Associates herself with the other rich kids, but the only friends she can call hers are Jackson and Danny.

One day, all three of their parents decide to go out for some kind of reunion or another, so they’re left at Jackson’s with a babysitter, who Jackson knows. In the end, she blames Jackson for the presence of Stiles in her life.

Jackson looks at her with something like disdain and annoyance, but the slight pink in his cheeks tells her he may find her pretty.

She flips her copper ringlets in response.

The suppressed laugh catches her off guard. 

Both her and Danny look up at the noise to see a tall teenager observing them.

In an imperious voice: “Who are you?” She asks, no demands.

Jackson, smug for some reason, shows off: “This is Stiles, he’s my babysitter.”

“You mean _our_ babysitter.” She insists.

Danny looks between the two, a knowing look in his eye. True to his character, he steps up to the teen with an easy smile. “Hi, I’m Danny. Sorry about these two.”

Stiles smiles back, easy. “Something tells me, you’re gonna get comfortable with that line in the future the longer you stay with these two.” His smile is teasing but good-natured.

Jackson huffs and stands closer to Stiles, as if this will prove his higher status. Danny shrugs with a grin, unsurprised.

She rolls her eyes and daintily moves to the teen. “Hi, my name’s Lydia.” Holding out her hand, she doesn’t expect the gentlemanly bow and barely there air kiss given to her offered hand. She loves being treated like a princess, Ariel is her favorite.

“Good day, Miss Lydia. Please, call me Stiles.” 

They spend the time watching Disney movies and playing board games. When Stiles pulls out the chess board, she expects him to take it easy on her, so she’s delighted to find out he doesn’t hold back his punches. She tips her king and gets ready for another game.

“Oh! I have a joke for you.” Stiles suddenly announces.

All three kids pause and give the teenager a look. Simultaneously, “No.”

“Too bad, I’m using babysitter powers to override your vote.”

They groan. 

“How can you tell the difference between a chemist and a plumber?”

Jackson and Danny indulge him, and ask.

To which Stiles responds by picking up the Pictionary board and spells out ‘unionized’. “Easy, just ask them to pronounce this word.”

Jackson tilts his head, silently mouthing the word to himself. Danny shakes his head but huffs out a small laugh. Surprising them all, Lydia cackles and snorts —aborted by the hand over her mouth. 

When their parents come back, she decides quietly to herself that Stiles will be good, future husband material. She’s eight, now, but she won’t always be. And even Disney princesses married with fairly large age gaps.  

 

 

****

 

 

He’s quiet and unassuming.

People outside his family call him nice and friendly. 

His family says these words suit him best: “Mai ho`oni i ka wai lana malie.” _Do not disturb the water that is tranquil. Let the peaceful enjoy their peace._  

Danny knows who he is, and he’s honest about it. To certain people. 

Heroes never appealed to him, unless they were as dreamy as George Clooney was in _Batman & Robin _. Sidekicks weren’t bad, but his favorites were the people behind the computer who could press a few buttons and break into bank vaults or secure government safe-houses. 

When he’s with Lydia and Jackson, they don’t judge him for being himself. The three of them work like a set of good-looking, efficient machines. They’re for themselves and each other, in some ways. 

Scott is adorable in the way that puppies usually are. Isaac is cute in the way his eyes get big and wet. Stiles is adorkable, in every sense of the word. 

That and Stiles helped him with coming out to his friends, who shrugged carelessly and didn’t turn away from making contact with him. 

His family tells him he’s a tranquil water, deep and fathomless with depths known only as far as he’ll let others see. Sunlight over water like pieces of glass shards scattered away’s a way, breaking through the surface only to be cut short. 

Danny knows who he is, and he’s honest about it. To certain people, from three to six. 

“Mai ho`oni i ka wai lana malie.” He tells to himself, as he looks at a book about computer programs.

 

 

****

 

 

When she was born, the doctor told her parents about epilepsy thanks to a first cousin, an aunt, and her great great grandmother.  

She didn’t know what any of that meant until she turned five. 

Her limbs went stiff. Her eyes rolled up, lids low only showing white. Drool dripping out the edge of her open mouth. A wet trail going down her leg, something she thought she’d outgrown.

When she comes to, she cries and cries and cries. For the normalcy she’d had. For the life she’d wanted.   

It was the first of many episodes, and her doctors said her condition would get worse the more time passed. Then she watched her parents cry. 

Since kindergarten started, she's been alone. She looks at Lydia Martin and envies the other girl’s styled hair and pretty dresses. In comparison, her clothes are ugly and frumpy. Her hair a messy tangle wrangled by an elastic tie. 

Four years have passed since. It’s the first time they recommended she stop taking her drugs. They’re hopeful her condition is stabilizing. 

Maybe it was the comics, but she starts hoping, too. A fragile, breakable thing more akin to a baby bird on its first flight. The instinct and yearning for freedom an unbeatable desire. 

She goes with her mom to work, a desk with a plaque that says ‘Rayes’ at the Sheriff’s Office, and wears a pretty white and yellow dress. 

Wings beating wildly. A leap of faith. 

Only to plummet, when a seizure wrecks her. 

But big hands catch her, keep her from falling on the ground. Gently, they set her on the ground and frame her neck loosely. 

When she opens her eyes, she meets warm brown. To herself, she wonders if this is how Catwoman felt when she met Batman. 

His name is Stiles and he’s so nice it makes her want to cry, happy. Something she never does after an episode. When she’s with him, her episodes aren’t as bad. 

One day he tells her about a cure. But she needs to wait since she’s still too young. 

Too young to be treated. Too young to wear nail polish, and paint her nails the way Catwoman, does. So Stiles promised her: 

“I can’t do much about making time go faster. But I can paint my nails for you.” 

Her face scrunches, comically. “Why would you do that?” 

He shrugs. “You’re the Catwoman to my Batman. We can do matching colors, or even complementary colors.” 

“Isn’t it weird for a boy to paint his nails?” 

“Not really. Have you seen pictures of David Bowie?” 

“Who?” 

A teasing chuckle. “I’ll show you another time. Just trust me. I am completely okay with painting my nails. I might even keep painting them way after you start, anyway.” 

Then Stiles’ mom and another lady comes to visit them. The two women and her parents start talking, while Stiles hangs out with her and they talk about Batman comics. His nails are painted red. 

When her parents get back to her, their faces are hopeful and they’re crying tears of joy. She’s scared to hope again, but when she looks at Stiles and his nails, something tells her he’ll find a way to catch her if she falls again. 

Her wings get stronger, and she flies, little by little. Trusting in the boy under her shadow.

 

 

****

 

 

He doesn’t know how to talk to people. Well, actually, he knows how to talk just fine, but what’s the point of making so much noise when he can better hear what the other person is saying. 

In the first place, he doesn’t even talk much. The only people he’s really comfortable with are his family. 

His mom, his grandmother, and his two-younger sisters. Even if he loves them with everything he’s got, Boyd still feels lonely sometimes. 

When he started school, it just made the loneliness grow as he watched others break off into their own little groups of three and four and more. The only other loner kids like him are an asthmatic boy, a girl with messy blond curls, and another blond curly haired boy who always wears long sleeves. 

Well, they used to be loners. It's been four years since and he sees them break off into their own little group, sometimes mixing with three of the most popular kids at school. Good for them, but Boyd just feels the loneliness settle over his shoulders, a heavy weight he can’t remove. 

Until one day, the blond girl with curly hair --he knows her name is Erica-- suddenly skips over to him, a mischievous smile on her lips. It makes Boyd nervous, but he can’t help but think the smile he’s seeing now looks a lot better than the sad one she used to wear. Without a word, she plops herself down on the cafeteria seat across from him. 

Her smile gets wider, and he stays silent. “Hi!” 

More subdued. “Hi.” 

“Your name’s Vernon, right?” 

A blink. He straightens up from his slouch. “Yeah, but most just call me Boyd.” 

“Do you want me to call you Boyd?” Sincere. 

“I don't really mind either.” 

“I’ll just call you either, then.” The smile is back. 

“What do you want?” He rushes it out so quickly it probably sounds more like: “waddoyawant”. 

She blinks and softens her smile. “Wanna have lunch with me and my friends?” 

“Why?” He glances at the table of people watching them then back at Erica. 

“Well, why not?” She pouts. 

Boyd doesn't talk much and he doesn't like to be alone. He wants friends his age, to play games with or just hang out for fun. 

“Come on,” Erica gets up and holds out a hand. “I promise no one’s gonna infect you with cooties or bite.” 

The mischief in her smile is a little blinding to him, so he takes a chance. He picks up his sandwich and lets the hand wrap around his wrist. 

After he spends more time with the group, he meets the one person a mishmosh of varied personalities like theirs can orbit around without much difficulty. 

It’s a teenager named Stiles. 

Boyd gives him a hug because he’s not alone anymore, and the teen who doesn't know him hugs back hard but soft, like his ma or his grandma. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to post this because of the wonderful reception from the previous one, and because of the theme of different perspectives. Kinda using this style to help the time go by faster, if you get what I mean. (Thanks so much for your patience and continued support) <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolves, one in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I pictured Hugh Jackman as Derek's dad. Do with that what you will

* * *

 

He is his Alpha’s Second, and he’s the youngest of three siblings. 

Separating the two shouldn’t be difficult, but try telling that to them: his older sister— the Alpha— and his older brother, a beta with his own family to care for.

It’s not like they purposely intertwine the two roles, but sometimes his sister is less likely to hear him out as a Second and ends up dismissing his ideas as an older would to their younger. On the other hand, his brother forgets he’s his younger brother and expects him to maintain the responsibility of a Second even when they’re just sitting at home talking about who’s fixing dinner, going so far as talking to him like he’s Talia’s messenger; not the little brother who’s just asking for some advice from his older brother. 

He loves his sister and brother and their family, in the same way that feeling of Pack suffused him when he was born. To enter the world, knowing he would never truly be alone. 

But it’s hard to ignore, the lingering distance of him and them.

Peter has often wondered if this started because their mother mated his father, even though Talia and Alistair’s father died long before the fact.

Nonetheless, he’s a Hale as much as they are, so he did his best to support his former Alpha --their mother. It wasn't a hardship to dig through books, documents, and old records written in curling penmanship. After all, knowledge is power. 

A good thing he immediately went in the library to re-check, otherwise he might have erroneously called the magic-smelling boy a witch-- of which he still believes to be a fairly viable option, despite the admission of being a Spark.

He’s not the strongest, or the most well-balanced. But nobody can call him stupid. 

Although you’d think by the look on his big sister’s face, he’d lost his intelligence and his sanity. 

Peter rolls his new, frost blue eyes and misses being away for college, even as he still enjoys the present proximity to his pack. It’s like having his innards pulled forward, while his brain attempts to enter some kind of happy place. When she asks for an explanation, he tells her the truth. Mostly, since their mom is listening and he’s always hated seeing their mother sad. 

“Peter!” 

And there’s his sister’s growl. Predictable. “Yes, sister dear?”

“Explain.” 

“As I was saying,” he hides his smirk at her growl, “the first time I slept with the werecoyote, I didn't actually know she was an assassin.”

“So-” 

“But the second time, I did.” 

Talia’s face grimaces and her sigh is heavy. Certainly, only an Alpha’s strength allowed her to hold back an eyeroll. 

Even if Peter did feel some lingering guilt --though by the blue of his eyes, he was much more affected than his heartbeat proclaimed-- the satisfaction of somehow annoying his older sister will never get old. That and the part about them being horribly drunk and the werecoyote killing a man who hit on her, which he could have prevented, is something he’ll take to the grave. A haunting specter looming over his shoulder, the personification of an epic culpability and guilt wrapped up in one moment in time.

Other than that, he doesn't step a toe out of line. Being friends with the young Spark isn’t worrying in the least, or so he reassures Talia. Definitely an unanticipated and/or planned friendship, but he’s grateful for it. Sometimes, he wonders what he’d be like without that connection.

His musings are interrupted by a knock. “Is someone dying?”

“No?” Derek’s head peeks through.

“Why does your answer sound like a question?” He gives his nephew a long look. 

The twelve-year old fidgets, a confused and annoyed look on his face. “Stiles is here.”

Peter gets up and walks out the library door, absently ruffling the boy’s hair. “Why didn't you say so.” As he walks through the hallway, he turns back at his nephew who is still following after him. “Did you want something?”

The tween’s face scowls, humorously similar to his older sister’s. “Why is Stiles here to see you?”

Peter can hear the pout and the silent ‘and not me?’. He shrugs and keeps moving towards the new heartbeat in the house; when it's usual speed picks up, it causes his strides to lengthen. 

When he steps into the living room, he sees a familiar disgruntled face with longer limbs curled tight, as if afraid to touch anything, never mind brushing against something. His eyes don’t miss the slight coiling movement of the boy’s ‘choker’.

“Stiles?”

A flinch, which Peter hesitates to name it as such but the action is exactly that. Wide, whisky brown eyes turn to him. Maybe it’s him, but those eyes are getting harder and harder to read lately, unless Stiles allows it.

The boy stands straighter, while tugging at his flannel sleeve. “I need your help.”

Peter eyes the painted nails— his nose wrinkles at the strong, chemical smell. “I’m buying you organic, non-toxic, and near odorless nail polish.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I meant by help. But go ahead, as long as you’re paying.”

“I can get you some nail polish!” Derek pipes up.

Stiles smiles politely but shakes his head. “Thanks, dude, but-” he turns to look at Peter, “-I really do need your help with something, Peter.” His eyes look meaningfully at Peter as if trying to telepathically send some kind of message… without any actual telepathic ability.

Peter quirks a brow and gestures outside. “After you.”

He’s known the boy for how many years now, and each time he sees the other, he’s consistently reminded of how well they work together. Peter’s closer to him than most others in his own Pack.

(They both miss the down turned mouth and furrowed brow Derek sends their way. Said boy’s fists clench, in annoyance or anger, only to release them with a shake of his hands and his head. He walks away and takes one glance before they disappear out the door.) 

When their far enough from the house and deep into the Preserve, Peter states out of the blue: “You’d make a great wolf.” Smart, loyal, and brave. Although he was expecting some kind of reaction, the full-bodied jump, racing heartbeat, and pungent smell of fear was not it. He observes the boy pause, breathe, and count backwards from ten. 

Stiles walks to him and in the most solemn voice a twelve-year old could muster: “I don't want to be one.” 

Slowly, he lets a hand hover over the boy’s head. His own stilted version of an apology. 

Stiles looks at the hand and back at Peter’s face.

He starts to pull his hand back and ignores the heavy weight of rejection. _‘Not even my own Pack is completely comfortable with me. Of course, he’d be the same.’_  

A smaller but long-fingered hand, nearly the same size as his own, catches his retreating one and places it on soft, brown hair.

“I don’t wanna be a werewolf.” 

“Okay.” Peter gently ruffles the hair. “I’m- I was just… I’m sorry.” 

Stiles shrugs. “We could still be Pack, though.”

A snort escapes him along with hysterical laughter,  and even if he can’t see his own face, Stiles’ responding snort and laughter probably means that he looks pretty ridiculous, right now.

“Yeah.” He gives the boy a noogie.

“Awesome! Now, take me to the Nemeton.”

“What.”

 

 

****

 

 

Peter had glanced warily at the tree, and while he was perfectly willing to yank the boy back should he try to approach it, he’s glad he didn’t have to resort to force. When he’d looked at Stiles’ face, it’s as if what little colour the boy had gained from their small hike dripped down like too much thickened paint under gravity’s force.

By the time they get back to the Hale house, it’s dark as pitch making the lights in the house seem like a beacon for those lost and wandering; any port to find in dark, stormy seas. 

“Give me a second to grab my keys, and I’ll-“ a door slams open, interrupting Peter.

Talia stands silhouette in the space of the open door. Her red eyes flash, Peter’s light blue in return, while Stiles bows his head, a manicured hand reaching up to his throat where Spokój rests.

“That’s alright Peter, I’ve already called Mrs. Stilinski.”

She walks down the steps with all the grace and poise of a matriarch and a predator. When reaching the ground, she approaches Stiles carefully, not unaware of the boy’s tense posture and guarded look. “Hello, Stiles, I hope you don’t mind but I’ve invited your mother and Isaac for dinner, an invitation also extended to you, of course.” She smiles, uncertain determination blatant on her face. 

Stiles had turned his head up when she’d first addressed him, and while he refuses to directly meet Talia’s eyes, he knows she means well. “Sounds good, Mrs. Hale, thanks.” He tilts his head slightly, just enough for a portion of his neck to be bared. 

He expects her to reach for that bared space, but is surprised for the quick and barely there touch only for it to linger at his shoulder. 

“I understand that you want to keep your Spark a mystery, but I was hoping that your family and mine could get better acquainted.”

The teen’s mouth opens in question before her meaning hits him. His lips purse. “I’m not sure if-“

“Please, Stiles.” Talia pleads. “I can only do so much to keep my promise to keep you safe as Alpha of this territory. Letting the rest of my pack be aware of you and yours ‘knowing’ about our ‘condition’ is all I'm asking for this dinner. They don’t have to know about _your_ own circumstances. Just that you and yours are friends of the pack.” 

Biting his lip, he instinctively reaches for Spok before aborting the movement to clutch at his shirt neck. He releases a shaky breath and squints his eyes at the Alpha’s (deceptively, in his opinion) benign expression. “That’s _all_ this is about.” 

“That’s all this is about.” She promises without hesitation. 

Before the tension in the air can solidify, Peter clears his throat and gestures to the order. “Shall we?” He aims his question at Stiles. 

The boy looks between the wolves and the door, nods.

 

 

****

 

 

Stiles is painfully awkward in the presence of all the Hales. He’s seen some of these faces when _his_ Derek showed him a photograph-- charred at the edges with a simple wooden frame keeping it from falling apart. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see _this_ Derek fighting an excited smile, and Peter smirking away to himself, clearly seeing humor in the situation. Just as he’s about to open his mouth and salvage some of the situation, a five-year old Cora --he can tell just from the stubborn jut of her chin-- tugs on his pant leg. 

Her big, brown eyes stare up at him, expectant. “Play wif me.” 

It's not a question. 

Helpless, he answers: “Okay.” 

Which is how his mom and Isaac find him when they arrive. 

He’s in the Hale’s living room, surrounded by Cora and her other cousins, all younger than him, along with Derek. They’re putting together a puzzle of a wolf playing in the snow. The white edges were a start but the other parts of snow are giving the other kids a harder time. Both he and Derek have been discouraged from offering any outright help, to which Stiles couldn't help but search the other boy’s face for a little misery loves company commiseration. Derek’s helpless shrug was exaggerated, so Stiles responds with a pout that gets him a laugh. 

Something inside him knows better than to compare, but Stiles can't help but notice every difference, every unfamiliar exchange. It makes the void inside him ache, but he knows better than to let the scent of his grief pour out. It would be good for this Derek to smile and laugh, as carefree as _his_ should have been but could never be.

Purposely pasting a wide grin, he looks up at his mom and Isaac. His mom responds with her own beautiful smile, slightly obscured by the confusion in her eyes, she knows her son. 

Isaac, sensitive to his surroundings, walks quickly to drape himself over Stiles’ seated form. 

“Stiles.” The younger boy whispers to the crown of Stiles’ head, communicating enough to the intended recipient. 

The brunette squeezes his younger brother’s hands. Their fingers tangling when Isaac opens his curled fists, relaxing a smidge despite the new environment and people.

Derek looks at their interaction closely, unaware of the claws popping in his hand. 

Just as Claudia begins to move to her boys, Talia appears at the doorway followed by the other adults Hales of the household. 

The Hale Alpha speaks to the room at large, causing everyone in the room to pause. “Before we start with dinner, I’d like to plainly say that we, the Hale Pack, welcome the Stilinskis as guests in our den.” The adults, except for Talia’s husband and Peter, are in varying shades of bug-eyed and jaw-dropped. At the kids’ continued confusion, Talia amends: “They know most of us are werewolves.” Cheerfully, she claps her hands once, “So, who’s hungry?”

 

 

****

 

 

With the previous announcement, the tension rises to new degrees, but everyone dutifully introduces themselves at the table. 

The first one to introduce himself was Rhonin, Talia’s husband. He’s got the same coloring as Derek, except for the darker shade of hazel, green in his eyes. A human turned wolf. He introduces Derek and Cora, and doesn't forget to include Laura, who’s absence is explained away due to a short trip she’s taking with friends to New York City. 

Ailith “Nana” Hale has black and grey streaks in her long, braided hair. She’s got Peter’s eyes, or it's more like vice versa, and the mischief in her smile explains everything about Peter’s own. Her face is wrinkled only as far as the crinkles at the sides of her eyes and the edges of her smile. 

A man named Alastair, who could be Talia in a younger more male form, introduces himself politely but distant. His wife, Simone, a dark-skinned woman with an accent that could only be from New Orleans, smiles bright and friendly to the newcomers; she’s human and much more welcoming than her spouse. Their son Damien Jude, “DJ,” is ten years old and pretends to wield a cooler-than-you attitude that mostly fails when his curiosity and enthusiasm gets the best of him, still a pup in training and a budding alpha, apparently. 

Freya, a human cousin of the Hales, moved in some years ago with her mate, Lei Xia, an Alpha. The two women are beautiful in their polarity with Freya’s auburn curls and sweet disposition accompanied with Lei Xia’s black, satin hair and elegant poise. 

The Stilinskis follow suit. 

Claudia, in professional mode, while Stiles paints an awkward smile on his face; he’s sitting on his hands to keep from reaching for Spok. Isaac only introduces his name all while reaching for Stiles’ hand and tugging it out of its hiding place; he clutches his older brother’s pinky. Stiles pulls his hand back, but before Isaac can feel rejected, the older boy wraps his bigger hand around the shaking fingers. 

Isaac’s shoulders slump just a bit. The two boys eat one-handed. 

Claudia’s softening gaze is not missed. 

Tension thick enough to cut with a butter knife dissipates to fog-like levels, visible and present but not too difficult to navigate through.

“Could you pass the salt?” 

More than one set of hands moves to action. 

“Thanks.” 

“Pass it to me, please.” 

“Sure.” 

“This is really good, Tal.” 

“Eh, I’ve had better.” 

“Peter.”

“I’m with Peter on this one.”

“Honestly, mom.” 

“Mom, Cora’s being fidgety.” 

“Derek you’re older, so you’re going to have to help with teaching Cora proper table manners.”

“But, mo-” 

“Mom, can I have ice cream, now.”

“Finish your veggies, Cora.” 

Cora pouts and ends up turning pleading eyes to Derek, who capitulates by eating at least half the veggies on her plate. Their dad shakes his head at his two kids with a grin.

“No fair! Why does Cora get to not eat all her greens?” 

“DJ, there’s no need to yell at the table." 

Forks and knives clink and scrape. Glasses are picked up, and plates are left clean or spotty. Some only had one serving, while others asked for thirds. Gradually, the noise in every big family takes over, only the Stilinskis stay soft-spoken in comparison.

In the end, the family of three excuse themselves and are politely grateful for the invite. But Talia doesn't let them go without an expectant: “Same time next week, then. Laura should be back from her trip, too.”

It's not a question. 

Peter releases a puff of a laugh before it's covered by his hand. The Stilinskis two plus one Lahey are a wash of grimaced grins and tired eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In all honesty, I've accepted the fact that I will never be completely satisfied with this chapter. Derek was a difficult character to grasp when I tried to base it on canon, because fucking canon doesn't provide a potentially multidimensional character with multiple dimensions. Like, seriously Davie! *clears throat*
> 
> Pardon the rambling. 
> 
> So you've been warned. I'm posting this because I want to move on, which I already am. Thank you so much for the continued support. Your kudos are amazing. Sorry if I can't answer all of your comments, but know that I read them and my mouth can't help but smile every time I see them. Thank you so much for the bookmarks and the hits. 
> 
> Please, enjoy

* * *

 

He’s the middle child. Neither the youngest nor the oldest, and sometimes, this makes him easily forgettable. 

He knows his parents don’t mean it, and neither do any of his other cousins, aunts, and uncles. 

But. 

It’s lonely.

In a house of thirteen people (about to be fourteen counting the recently pregnant state of his Aunt Sim), everybody’s got their own thing to do. 

The younger ones have to be watched. Cora, being the youngest, needed attention; if not from his mom, then his dad. Laura, being the eldest and future Hale Alpha, has to be groomed by his Nana, his mom, and even Uncle Peter, and she’s going to go off to college soon.  

Which usually left Derek to do his own thing, but somehow, his family still found a way to shelter him, being that they knew he was ignored a lot of the time. 

He never got the same lessons that Laura did, aside from the basic training they put him through since he started kindergarten. On his first full moon run, the only problem his family faced with his transformation was when he ended up running away from the Preserve. His nose led him to someone’s house; it smelled like lightning, warmth, star anise, and flowers. Uncle Peter was the one who caught him, but they never told him which house, or whose house, he was headed to. 

Having an active imagination, he could see all the _life_ the place probably had, from the flora to the inhabitant fauna. Explorer had always been his favorite game. Imagining all the different places he could go to. The different languages and people, all teeming with the one thing every living creature on this earth could offer: life. And the best part of the game, even if playing with others made it a little better, he could still play alone. 

Sometimes his cousins and Laura would make fun, saying he was more Wolf than Were. But what they did in the name of fond teasing, Derek found to be a more complimentary comparison than any nice comments he would receive about his clothes, his smile, or anything else, really.

In the forest, he’s surrounded by the sounds of chirping birds. Leaves rustling as the wind dances through, offering a cool breeze on a hot day or a biting snap of cold, making the hairs on his neck stand on end. 

But even with all the things the Preserve offers him, lonely is as lonely does.

The first time he met Stiles, he was so happy to have found a friend of his own. Sure, there were the others, but Stiles was the first one he talked to, who wasn’t an adult or related to him. He knows it’s a little weird, how much he keeps pursuing the other boy, but his wolf tells him he’s someone worth being around. If there’s one thing his lessons have taught him, it’s that listening to his wolf’s instincts are better than any logic or reason his conscious mind could build.

But. 

Since they started kindergarten, Derek and Stiles have been in the same school, even sharing a few classes. 

Two years and some months after Stiles’ dad died, Derek was hoping he could hang out with Stiles to celebrate his birthday, even asking his mom if he could buy Stiles a gift. All his chores were done without complaint, but Stiles wasn’t there when he biked over to the Stilinski’s house. It was a little disappointing, but he was able to see Stiles’ house. Beautiful, comforting, and lively. The only surprising thing about his visit was how familiar it all felt.

One time, he caught Stiles near the end of the school year and asked him if he could celebrate his birthday with him, but Stiles was already doing something with his mom. His face must have been pretty honest that day considering his Uncle Peter stopped him and asked what was wrong, so he told his uncle and got a really weird answer. Weird in that his uncle didn’t even tease him but responded with: “I’m gonna borrow your idea.” Seriously, what? Sometimes, he just had no idea what goes on in his Uncle Peter’s brain. But compared to his other aunts and uncles, Derek still thought he was the cool one, albeit begrudgingly so. 

That time, he was turning eleven in December and Stiles had been ten since May. 

He tries to invite Stiles along when he’s with their classmates, usually playing some kind of sport, but the other boy keeps declining. It’s not that the younger is bad at sports, since Derek sees him at gym class and he always does well, so, with that in mind, Derek tries a new approach: books. He always sees Stiles with a book in hand, from old leather-bound ones to paperbacks; titles going at a range of any and every topic. They’re in middle school when he gets up the courage to say: 

“Hey, Stiles!” Cheerful and curious.

“Hey, Derek.” Nose in another book, pages held open by red and black painted nails.  

“So, I notice you read a lot.” He leans closer, across from the reading boy. 

“Uh-huh.” Stiles agrees, a pen held in his teeth. 

“Mind recommending me any?” 

At the question, Stiles turns his head up. Intense amber assessing hopeful, green-hazel. “Really?” Tone slightly dubious. 

Derek adjusts the backpack strap over his right shoulder. “Yeah.” A smile. 

Doe-eyes blink twice. “Start with _Harry Potter: Sorcerer’s Stone_ by J.K. Rowling, then, there’s the _Chamber of Secrets_ , followed by _Prisoner of Azkaban_ … Hmm, I wonder if you’ll like or not like that one.” Stiles aims a shrewd eye at Derek, assessing.  “Get back to me after those three.” 

“There’s more?” 

“Yup, it’s a whole series.” 

A series, well. “Cool. Thanks for the recommendation.” 

And from then, they talk back and forth about the books they’ve read. 

“So you like magic?” 

“Yup. But if that’s all you got from Harry Potter, this discussion is probably going to end faster than you can blink.” 

Derek blinks. “I blinked.” 

“I could see that.” 

“And I wasn’t finished yet.” 

Stiles gestures challengingly with a come hither motion.

Derek sits across from the other boy. They’re in a secluded section of the library. Hardly seen or noticed. “I’ve only read the first three, but one main idea is that it keeps going back to Harry and his parents. What happened to them. How he’s been living without them.” 

Stiles stays silent. 

“And the thing about him and Voldemort. I just kept thinking of coins but different sides. Like their relationship is tied together because of that one event, but then there's little hints of how that one event helped to make them who they are. The path Voldemort took that's obviously like the villains route, while Harry is still finding his own way between what's right and wrong. Though, it seems more right, but that could by my own protagonist bias talking. As far as I can tell, anyway.” 

Stiles nods and a smile starts to form on the edges of his mouth. 

Derek swipes his tongue over his own suddenly dry lips. “The last one I read. Remus...the werewolf. Sirius, the animagus, his godfather. Peter, the traitor. They were all good friends with Harry's parents.” 

The younger boy’s gesture says: ‘go on’. 

“They were his family’s _closest_ friends. Probably the closest thing he could have had to family that was even remotely related to him. But all of them left. Peter betrayed them. Remus... had his own issues as a werewolf, which... yeah. And Sirius was technically a fugitive.” Derek can’t imagine how that would feel. Losing your parents, then later ending up in a Pack that wasn’t really the way Pack should be. “There’s something bittersweet but hopeful in the books that I’ve read so far, especially when Harry's with his friends Ron and Hermione.” 

“And?”

“I want to read more.” 

Stiles laughs and gives Derek the biggest smile he’s ever given anyone other than his mom. 

Green eyes rove over every detail: the lines formed from a too-wide smile, ruddy cheeks, and the sound of his uninhibited laugh-- twinkling and playful. Derek smiles back, bunny teeth and all.    

But. 

One time, Derek was at the park with his friends. They were playing a decent game of basketball, decent in that it was just intense enough to warrant some of his real strength, though never all of it. He was walking to the water fountain for a drink when he looked up, seeing a scene so unexpected. 

It was Stiles. But surrounded by a bunch of kids, five or six of them total. They were probably around seven to eight-year olds. A few of them would tug at Stiles, either at his shirt or his hand, to get his attention. As the outsider looking in, Derek could see how Stiles moves to play with the kids, only to redirect them back to playing with their peers. He was with them but not completely.  

A smile is on his face when he walks over to Stiles, just as the other boy is about to sit down. 

“Hey, Stiles.” He can feel how much his teeth take up the space of his mouth, but it’s more of a struggle to fight it down. 

Stiles drops the bottle from which he was about to drink, so Derek picks it up and hands it back to him. 

Doe-brown eyes aim at him, and Derek all but reins in the urge to fidget. He’s never been sure of the color of Stiles' eyes, especially now when the light hits it just so it shines with speckles of honey. It made him wonder, sometimes, how such warm eyes could be so intense. 

“Oh, hey. Derek.” 

Derek doesn’t miss the discomfited undertones in the other boy’s voice, and that helps to make his smile less toothy. Was he not supposed to walk over to greet a friend at the park? His other friends seemed to always want him over, mostly to play a game or talk about other people. 

He coughs and takes another glance at the kids Stiles was looking after. “So, do you help out at the daycare or something?” Once Stiles’ attention is safely away from him, Derek unabashedly looks back at the other boy, to the slight curl on the tips of his hair and the moles dotted along his neck and face. 

“Ah, no. Well, I kinda do. But no. I’m just babysitting them.” Stiles looks back at Derek, catching his stare. 

Trying to play things cool, Derek scuffs his shoe on the ground and hides his hands in his pockets. He hopes he looks cool. “Cool.” Sometimes, he really wants to smack his palm to his face. “You don’t play with them much?” 

The other boy’s brow wrinkles, and Derek’s not sure if it’s confused, uncomfortable, or something. He feels like he might have caught Stiles in the act; with what act, he doesn’t know. 

“What makes you say that?” Derek can hear Stiles’ heart pick up a beat in less than two seconds, only for it to come back to its usual pace.

He’s not really sure what about his question made Stiles react like that, but since everything seems okay, Derek shrugs, carelessly, aiming his eyes to meet Stiles. “I just noticed how you kinda bring their attention back to their friends.” 

“Oh, that.” Stiles uses his right hand to hold onto his left wrist. “You know how it is. It’s better for them to keep up a closer friendship with people around their age.” 

“We’re not the same age, and you’re definitely not the same age as Uncle Peter.” 

“That’s different,” Stiles replies shortly. 

Derek’s brows furrow. He can hear the other’s heart rate pick up, and it’s not going back to normal. Both boys are now facing each other fully, rather than the side-to-side they were before. “Uncle Peter says you guys are friends even with a difference of like-" he pauses to exaggeratedly think it over, "-eleven years. We’re friends and the difference in our age is only by a year.” 

“So what? We’ve been in the same class since kindergarten. Anything less than knowing each other’s names would be hard to do.” Stiles turns his attention back to the kids, ignoring Derek. 

Derek doesn’t understand how him trying to find out more about Stiles and what he does ended with this kind of atmosphere. When he sniffs the air, he can smell Stiles’ annoyance, anger, and that same steady vein of discomfort that appeared when Derek walked over.  “You make it sound like a chore.” _Knowing me_ , he finishes silently to himself. 

He walks away. Ignoring Stiles’ voice calling him back. Not seeing the pain in those doe-brown eyes. Not seeing the way the kids run to their babysitter. 

Derek doesn’t miss how much time his uncle gets to spend with Stiles. Or how Stiles comes by the house just to ask for his uncle. 

No, he’s not jealous. 

So what if his first friend since kindergarten doesn’t hang out with him as much as he wants him to. It’s fine. Derek’s got a lot of friends anyway. 

He spends more time with the other sporty people, since that's how they met and kept up their conversations. He joins the swim team, the basketball team, the baseball team, and the football team. Lacrosse just isn't his type of game, though, he doesn't mind subbing in when they need him. His parents remind him to keep his extra abilities under wraps, which he does, except when he doesn’t. 

The summer before high school starts, he doesn’t seek Stiles out, even if his eyes still follow the brunette. They don’t talk as much about books, but when he sees Stiles carrying a new one around, he can’t help but stop by the library to see if it’s available.   

It’s fine. 

There are the family dinners his mom invites the Stilinskis and that blonde kid over for. He and Stiles don’t talk much to each other besides a few stilted, polite exchanges.  He also does not find it annoying when his sisters take over the boy’s attention, along with his cousins. After all, Stiles doesn't really see them as anything more than acquaintances, and Derek knows Stiles didn’t say that outright but he’s not stupid. If Stiles doesn't want his friendship… if he just sees it as something to deal with, a chore- 

Finding out that Stiles and his family know about werewolves was… 

He’s fine. The smile on his face is natural and made with little effort on his part, or so he self proclaims. Relationships can be convenient, a description based on personal experience better defining every interaction he’s made with his fellow athletes and classmates. Stiles _was_ his first friend, as one-sided as it actually was. 

And then there’s Paige. 

She’s got a mole under her left eye, curly brown hair, and the first time they talk to each other, she’s sarcastic in a way that really doesn’t remind him of anybody else. Nope. It’s more biting and stuck up, though. That's for sure. But despite her acerbic bite, he can scent her own warring arousal. And he ignores his uncle’s observations on the similarities between her and a certain boy.

He’s got his friends, they say he should date Paige or any girl they say is pretty, and Paige is convenient. She’s **like** _him,_ but **not** _him_ , and she wants Derek.

So why does he still keep stealing glances at Stiles?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The High School Life of Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just call me 'Miss Moving On'. Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck by this story!

* * *

 

A flutter of red passes by the trees.

He’s walking through the woods at night following a giant talking tree-person. Spok is, as always, adorning his neck in a loose coil. Thanks to the new moon, Stiles has to rely on the vision he’d learned to share with Spok to even see what's in front of him. 

“Hey, Treebe-” he’s interrupted when he runs into the tree-man's legs. The Leshiye suddenly stopped and reached a hand out to connect to the nearest tree. 

“Something’s wrong. Ogień, we must pick up the pace.” After this declaration, the Leshiye lengthens his strides. 

Realizing his own stunned stillness, Stiles hikes up a handful of his cloak to run. He did not plan his first day of high school to end with him gallivanting in the woods, but at least this time he's not searching for a dead body. He hopes. 

 _“Spok, can you sense anything off?”_  

_“I don’t know what it is, but I guess the best way to describe it would be energy. A lot of energy, and it’s growing immensely  in the direction Treebeard is headed.”_

_“Energy?”_

 

 

****----

 

  
_“Wake up.”_  

A shape curls and moves under a purple blanket. Meanwhile, a furry, snake-like creature with silvery black coloration slithers over and across the bed. It stops at a tuft of dark-brown hair peeking out, the creature slips into a gap in the sheets. 

“Mmrhgh.” A sleepy grumble. 

 _“Wake up.”_  

“Twenny mur minmphs.” 

Spokój bites the top edges of the blanket and drags it down to the side, quick and easy. 

The action reveals a pale, teenaged boy with his lengthy and growing body curled up like a comma, knees drawn to his chest. Shivering thanks to his lost blanket, his brow furrows and reluctant, sleep-heavy eyes open to see a vulpine face staring scoldingly.

Stiles turns over on his back to stare up at the ceiling; eyes blinking to focus. 

 _“Stiles?”_ Spokoj asks, now worried for the lack of further protest from his human. An unusual occurrence for his boy’s mornings. 

“Just tired from warding the house yesterday.” 

 _“Yesterday was so cool! We finally reached enough maturity to do wards. That and my colors can change now!”_  

Stiles snickers at Spok’s excitement. “Very cool, but definitely draining. And now… It’s the first day of high school, Spok.” His voice croaks and a sigh follows his statement, audibly. 

_“Yeah, it is. It's been marked on your calendar since-”_

“Boys! Time to get up.” Claudia’s voice rings throughout the house. Her footsteps loud enough to obscure the other set of footsteps coming closer to Stiles’ bedroom door. 

Stiles and Spokój turn their heads simultaneously to the squeaking hinges of an opening door. 

A peak of messy blond curls further reveals a drowsy and watery set of blue eyes. 

“Morning, bud. How’d you sleep?” 

Stiles gestures the younger boy over, in turn he receives the crawling child with open arms. Isaac sticks his head under Stiles’ chin and makes sure Spokój isn't crushed under or between them. 

“G’morning, Stiles. G’morning, Spok.” 

The three settle in for a cuddle, interrupted by Claudia’s knock at the open door. 

“C’mon boys. Up and at’em.” Her smile is gentle as she walks closer to them. Before they can react, she lays over top of them on her back, putting the three boys under her sort of dead weight, if not for her legs braced on the floor to lighten her full mass from crushing them. 

While they groan, she laughs heartily. “Ah~ the perks of parenthood.”

Outcries of Mom and squeaks flood the room. All three of the boys crawl out, Spok coiling around Stiles’ arm, while Isaac holds Stiles hand until Stiles gestures him for first use of the bathroom. 

Claudia gets up and brushes Stiles’ bangs out of his face, the boy’s hair a mess. “I made breakfast. Would you mind setting the plates out on the counter?”

“You got it, Mom.” He snaps his fingers into finger guns. 

She sends her eldest a grin and goes to get ready for her day.   

As he hears his mom’s footsteps disappear, he functions on automatic when he sets the plates and utensils down. Stiles remembers how the first day of high school went, and it involved Jackson and a few of the other lacrosse guys stealing his and Scott’s backpacks, only for them to find it later filled with the team’s old and used gym socks. Either way, Stiles doesn’t plan to let his backpack out of his sight, or to use his locker in keeping anything of import. Everything he needs stays on him, and the only time he’ll be carrying around a textbook is if the teacher says so. He’s hoping to start early on notes once he gets a syllabus from each class.

It's probably a stupid thing to think about but things so far have been fairly normal. If by normal, he does mean the lack of immediate life-threatening situations for himself and the people he cares for.

Normal. 

Which doesn't mean he’s been slacking.   

Since he first had Peter bring him to the Nemeton, Stiles has been randomly checking on it and making sure it hasn't become the stump that it was before. He’s also smart enough to keep his random visits well before dark, and only to go at night if he’s got somebody to back him up, like when Peter comes back from school or if Treebeard doesn’t mind having him along for company.   

As Stiles gets lost in his thoughts, Spok slithers down from his arm to the counter. The kuda-gitsune nudges the plates and utensils into a more organized arrangement. 

Soft, but audible, footsteps stop by the junction separating the kitchen from the dining room. Isaac appears with his hair damp and curling. 

“Your turn, Stiles.” 

His voice goes unheard as Stiles continues to stare off at the table, as still as deep waters. In moments like these, Isaac is never sure how he should react. Should he reach out and nudge him? Or should he just wait things out? He does know one thing, most teenagers don’t really act like how Stiles does. Isaac turns his eyes down to the kuda-gitsune slithering along on the counter and is reminded of more things that make Stiles the most singular person he’s ever met. 

Before Isaac can decide on an action, Stiles is shaken out of his stupor when Spok calls for him.

Finally noticing Isaac, Stiles says: “Hey, dude. All done?” 

Isaac nods wordlessly and stays standing. 

“Feel free to take a seat or you know, not… to take a seat.” The teen brings a hand up to pull on his lengthening hair. He was thinking of shaving it down, but he’s got enough episodes. G-ddamn does he hate his episodes, especially when it makes Isaac go too quiet; the kid’s already quiet enough as he is. “Right, so mom made some breakfast. You-” He points and gestures at what seems to be the entirety of the kitchen. “Feel free, like I said. I’ll just be upstairs getting ready. Okay, br- bud?”

Both boys look at each other with widened eyes. A Freudian slip being less of a slip and more of a proclamation. 

Stiles shuts his teeth with a clack. He ducks his head, apologetic, and unseeing of the hand reaching out for him as he runs out. Spok, always prioritizing his human, jumps off the counter to coil around his boy’s wrist. 

Left alone, Isaac curls his empty hand closed. He sits down and eats just enough to curb his hunger. He’ll be hungry again two-hours later.

 

 

****

 

 

Claudia went to school majoring in criminology and education with a minor in biology because she’s observant, practical, and not afraid of hard work, especially if it involves the things she finds interesting.

Honestly, if her kids think they’re being subtle, she’s not going to hold back what’s bound to be a full belly laugh when they’re being obvious about something. Considering how she found them this morning, it probably happened when she left them alone to get ready. Whatever _it_ is, she figures her boys can reach their own resolution judging by the apologetic and insecure looks on their faces. The two of them even have a hard time pretending not to look at each other for too long before turning to look out the car window, eyes supposedly riveted by a bush or a mailbox. 

She stops the car at Isaac’s school first. “Have a good day, hon.” Claudia sends Isaac a smile and lets him initiate any direct contact. But it seems like it’s not that kind of morning.

“Take care, Isaac.” Stiles murmurs and sends the boy off with a smile that Isaac returns, if a bit smaller. 

On their way to Beacon Hills High School, Claudia addresses the issue while she’s stopped at a stoplight. 

“Szczepan, do I need to conduct a maternal intervention?” 

Her boy reaches up to lightly scratch his cheek. A nervous habit she’d seen John do before. 

“Honestly? If things get that bad, then yes... But it was my fault. I jumped the gun and almost called Isaac, ‘bro’.” 

“Oh, Stiles.” Claudia changes gears as the lights turn green, but not without squeezing her son’s shoulder for a brief moment. “Well, if it helps. From what I’m seeing, you two will be okay.”

They arrive at the high school in record time. “Have a good first day, gwiazdko. Don’t forget to call if you need me.” She ruffles his hair before he jumps out and goes. 

“Will do, mama.” 

He waves at her, his nails painted a blue-green base and a swirl of gold for accents.  

 

 

****

 

 

The first day of high school is as stress free as he expected it to be, and as stressful as he never anticipated it to be.

He’s not being bullied by a group of jocks the second he walks through the door, but he does get a few stares from people which leads to sudden murmuring. If this is the reaction he gets for painting his nails, he can’t wait to see how his peers are going to handle bisexuality.  _It’s a new millennium, people_. Stiles reaches a hand up to make sure Spok’s properly displayed as a layered choker. _Or m_ _aybe, it's the choker-look?_  

While staring and judgment are as far from unfamiliar as the back of his hand, Stiles isn’t sure how to interpret them. Whatever. Ignorance of his peers is bliss. 

If not for Spokój, the ache of missing Scott next to him as he walks the halls and enters his classes would probably give him another panic attack. Stiles walks to his locker with his head tilted down, unwilling to meet eyes. High school is a small blip in his mind’s eye, since it’s flooded with what-ifs and probabilities of what this future might hold. 

 _‘Hunters, fires, and Hales_ _! Oh_ fucking  _my_.’ 

He finds his locker number and opens it to see nothing, empty with minimal debris. He’s gotta give credit to the school though. It’s not as much of a mess as it was in his time. A good space to fill the tedium of his textbooks. If he could keep up his grades with an unsteady heart rate and nearly explosive sense of panic, he can endure it this second time around. Whether he lives at the end… well, as they say, prioritize. 

As Stiles starts setting out his books for the day ahead, his senses prick up at the feeling of being stared at, more intense than any of the looks he received when he first walked in. He pulls his head out of his locker and can’t help but duck at the too familiar action when he was a full five-foot and ten-inches compared to his current five-foot and six-inch height. 

Surreptitiously, he glances around only to meet with a recognizable shade of forest green. Looking at him now... hurts, because Stiles can see which parts of the Derek he used to know are growing from this kid’s slightly larger ears to the bushy eyebrows, tan skin tone, and even the boy’s lean frame. Because this Derek is a boy in every sense of the word from his personality to his physicality, and Stiles refuses to see this boy become the man he used to know.

Stiles nods his head and offers a small, polite smile that dies when those same eyes look quickly away. It was probably a hopeless endeavor to believe that what happened at the park would be something they could move on from. He knows its his fault for lashing out (unreasonably), but there was the confused jumble of elation from his Pack being together within five-meters of each other and the fear that Derek would be pulled back into whatever shit show they had kept falling into before. And the questions the guy kept asking. Stiles knows how much younger his previous Pack is compared to him, now. He also knows that he can't have Scott the same way he did before as a best friend, not when he and the others are finally getting closer this time around. Like how a real Pack should come together, by choice instead of necessity. 

Now, Stiles not only feels like shit for freaking out Isaac with his daydream and blatant Freudian slip, but the shitty situation with Derek just adds more to a day that he can’t honestly say he was looking forward to repeating. His Adam’s apple bobs, equal parts distress and frustration. 

 _“Stiles? Is it bad to miss ‘the first day of high school’?”_ Spokój queries. 

Stiles sighs and brings a hand up to Spok. _“It is. Don’t worry Spok. I’m okay.”_  

 _“If you say so… I’ll always be here if you need me.”_  

 _“I know.”_ Stiles could try to fight the smile growing on his face (green glances back at the smile before the owner of those coloured-eyes turns away), but having Spok with him makes everything just a little bit easier. He wonders how he even got so lucky when the kuda-gitsune first appeared in his life. Even then, he wonders why the kuda-gitsune never appeared to him in the previous one, considering every turmoil-ridden moment he endured with his Pack. Maybe, it’s because his magic this time around is stronger or really, it could be because of Mandalei. 

_‘Which reminds me. I’ve got more training later this week. Mandalei is seriously the best.’_

When they re-arranged his therapy to 'as needed' instead of 'scheduled', grateful was an understatement. He knows staying tight-lipped really doesn’t make for productive therapy even with the discounts Mandalei offered as her favorite (only) pupil, it was still an unnecessary expense in his opinion. And he’s learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

 _“Stiles! The bell rang.”_  

 _“Shit!”_  

Stiles scrambles to make sure everything he needs is on him, checking for his mini-grimoire, and books it to his first class.

 

 

****

 

 

The first day of class is supposed to be easy since all they’re doing is getting used to their schedule, knowing which classrooms they go to, and receiving syllabi about what each class’ assignments and projects will consist of. Stiles expected all of that and that was the easy part, despite Harris’ attempts at being the giant asshat of a teacher that he is. He’s glad his mom still had the connections to insist on his teachers to call him Stiles during class, the main reason being to lessen confusion. Not any of the previously mentioned tasks and listings was even remotely difficult or stressful, except.

Derek.

The guy was in every, single class that Stiles had. They even had the same gym class. 

And another fun fact in the Highschool Life of Stiles was his seating arrangements. Trying for a seat somewhere in the back to avoid notice was --sincerely without hyperbole-- impossible. Stiles suspects unfair use of wolfy powers, but whatever gets the job done, it ensures that Stiles will be seated at the front with a very keen awareness of an intense stare aimed at the back of his head. It’s not much help either when Derek’s posse follows right after the guy to occupy every available seat in said guy's vicinity. Teenagers.  

At least, popular high school people will always act as popular high school people do.

One thing he’d almost forgotten about was Paige.

Sure, he knew what happened between her and Derek courtesy of previous Peter’s narration, but he had no idea of what she really looked like. So, how he knows the girl to be the same Paige as the girl in previous Peter’s story, aside from the name, is how Derek reacts to seeing her. A reaction Stiles can think is mutual when Paige keeps sneaking glances at the other boy. 

What he knows for sure is that the tightening in his chest is his old pal: panic. A thrumming staccato just under his skin, like shivering without the presence of cold. Trembling for no other reason than because.  

 _“Can’t say it’s been a boring day.”_ Stiles thinks to himself, and loudly enough for Spokój to overhear through their bond. The kudagitsune has transitioned from his neck to his wrist, a request made in order to make the therapeutic touch Stiles gets from Spok more subtle rather than the blatant action of his hand reaching for his throat. 

Stiles told himself and his mom, in front of Isaac, that he can hold off on getting a phone. Things aren’t that tight at home, what with the steady job his mom has and the money left to them from his dad’s life insurance, along with Isaac’s mom’s and his brother’s life insurance (the two things his dad had never tried to touch). He knows the investments will be good in the future, but they aren't that good yet, so they'll take time. But that doesn’t mean he’s interested in adding more to the bills than what they already have to cover.

There’s a reason his dad always said he was so much like his mom. They're both stubborn.

After the final bell rang, he reluctantly texted his mom in less than twenty-characters that he would get home on his own. Expecting her call, he answered dutifully and made sure to seem as okay as he could be with a small fib of hanging out with new friends that he made at school today. Agreeing to his curfew of before sundown with the promise of cop cars looking for him should he be a minute late, he quickly left the school premises on foot. 

Stiles runs, uncaring of the weight on his back. Focused solely on the gasping breaths escaping his mouth, his heart beats a rapid fire rhythm. Moments like these make him miss EDM and trap music.  

Pointed forward and onward. He runs to tire, to escape, and to breathe. He doesn’t know where he’s headed. 

By the time his legs start shaking, Stiles ends up in the center of town surrounded by shopping centers, mom and pop stores, and --his eyes light up-- a Starbucks.

After buying his coffee, Stiles looks around to see that all the tables and seats are occupied, except one. He’s still got a lot of sun left and he’s not really interested in going anywhere, neither are his legs from the way they can barely carry his weight. His head ducked down, he walks over to the two-seat table only occupied by one, clears his throat, and asks:

 “Hi, um. Uh, sorry, if I’m bothering but I was wondering if this seat isn’t taken would it be okay if…” Stiles shakes his head. “You know what- actually. Sorry. I’ll just-” 

“Why don’t you give me a chance to answer before you go jumping to any conclusions?” 

The voice is a bit husky and pitchy, definitely a woman’s. It’s more amused than annoyed, but both intonations are there. When he looks up, it takes every fiber of his being to stop himself from having a panic attack.

 _“Stiles?”_  

Spokój locks every joint and keeps as still as stone, keeping tight to Stiles’ wrist. His human’s panic is starting to get to him. He’s never felt this kind of emotion from Stiles before. His boy told him about having panic attacks, but this is overwhelming, terrifying. Spok closes his eyes to hide their glow. He has to bring Stiles back to reality. 

Her hair is a dark brown, no blonde highlights in sight. Her face is softer, younger and not as hardened as he remembers it to be.

 _“Stiles!”_  

But her eyes are sharp and confused, he sees it transition from annoyed amusement to suspicion. 

_“STILES!”_

He coughs and splutters, every bit the embarrassed and flustered teenage boy when he first sees a pretty girl. A far cry from his inner thoughts. 

“Sorry. Um, right. Right! Uhh…” Sheepishly, seemingly, he brings a hand up to scratch the back of his head to wait for her answer. 

Kate Argent blinks her dark, hazel eyes at the boy. She was a little annoyed to have somebody in her space, but the situation isn’t as annoying as this assignment her dad sent her on. 

“Go ahead.” She smiles. _‘No better time to practice flirting with a teenage boy than the present, I guess.’_ It’s disgusting, what her dad is asking her to do. But since she’s going to be the next head of the family, she apparently needs to kill a whole Pack. Sometimes, she resents her dad for putting her through training so early and so fixedly. She never lets these thoughts enter her mind in the presence of the Argent Patriarch, but away from him is a different story. 

As Stiles takes a seat, he closely observes and analyzes every little tic or jump on the face of the woman sitting across from him. He keeps his own face masked, but he sees something unexpected on hers. 

“Your face says daddy issues.” 

Kate blinks and gapes at the statement. “Excuse me?” She starts tensing but doesn’t move to get out of her seat. She sat here first, after all. 

Stiles blinks back and widens his eyes. An innocent statement born from a lack of brain to mouth filter. “I just meant... that’s what your face is saying.” 

She narrows her eyes, disgruntled. “I thought I said no jumping to conclusions.” 

“Judging from your reaction, I didn’t so much jump as saunter over.” He tilts his head, confident, and brings his attention back to his coffee. Using his periphery to keep an eye on her shoulders and hands, he gulps down his hot and no longer scalding coffee.

Kate fidgets, feeling caught out and off kilter. She leans forward with elbows on the table, showing some cleavage and a bright smile at the ready. “Now, I wouldn’t say that.” 

When Stiles glances back up, he purposely makes sure his eyes meet hers directly, no wandering or lolly-gagging at any other thing but her eyes. “Is that so.”

She’s always been told how pretty she is. Boys and men would look at her body, and she could see as clear as if it were glass, how they objectified her. Her dad noticed the attention too and told her that the best way to respond was to use what she had to distract, elude, and better yet, seduce. That was a lesson he’d hammered into her since she first entered puberty. Kate was fifteen when her dad told her to lure in a werewolf through flirtation, and she was eighteen when her dad brought in another hunter that he wanted on his side. Flirtation, seduction, and sex are the tools she wields to yield the results her father asks of her. But this kid. This boy. Not once did he glance at her chest, her lips, or the way she holds her body sinuously to draw in another’s pheromones. This boy looks her in the eyes, and he sees her.

“What’s your name?” Her voice has turned blunt, honest.

“Stiles. And yours?” 

Kate raises an eyebrow. “How about a real name?” 

“It’s real to me. Should I just call you no one or nobody, then?”

Her jaw can’t help but drop at the other’s audacity. “Kate. And you’ve got a mouth on you.” 

“Won’t be the last time I hear about my mouth.” Stiles smirks instinctively and quickly flattens it. “And you’ve got daddy issues.” 

She crosses her arms. “What makes you think it’s my dad and not my mom? Or what the hell, a boyfriend, maybe?”

He softens his own eyes, never leaving hers. “Just a guess.” He blinks and brings a hand up to rub his cheek, seemingly lost in thought with his eyes downturned and looking at the table. “Personal experience helps, too.” A shrug and he looks back into her eyes. 

“You’re a kid.” Defensive. 

“Teenager. And you’re an adult.” His eyes don’t leave hers, but they exude kindness and understanding. 

Kate picks at her jeans, unseen under the table, but for the eyes of a kuda-gitsune wrapped around a boy’s wrist. She wonders if this is really a good idea. Then again, he’s just a kid, and she’s been observing him. And other than being perceptive for his age, he’s just a human teenager. She could take him. “My dad... Have you got some kind of ESP or something?”

His eyebrow quirks conveying amusement, disbelief. “Yeah, you got me. My real name is actually Phoebe Halliwell, and I’ve got two older sisters along with a magic book of spells.” A growing smile mirrors the one across from him. 

“If that’s true, where’d your boobs go?” A smirk. 

Exaggerated shock. “My boobs!” He clutches his chest. 

She guffaws at the absurdity of the boy before her. “You’re ridiculous, kid.” 

“Good to see you smiling, adult.” 

Kate blushes and covers her smile with a hand, though she knows it’s too late. “I don’t get it.” 

“What’s to get?” 

“Do you always talk to strangers and make sure you can get them to laugh?”

A self-conscious gesture, he rubs the tips of his hair. “Not always. I’ve got some sense of self-preservation. Stranger danger is a phrase to live by, you know. But I could just get where you’re coming from, so I figured.” 

Her laugh holds no mirth this time. “You don’t know me.” She stares him down, but his eyes stay on hers, never wavering. 

“Your dad wants you to do something that you don’t really think is the best or right choice, but since he’s your dad, you feel obligated to follow through.” 

She stills, predatory. 

Stiles stills, anticipatory. 

Her jaw hardens. “I don’t feel like talking about this.” Kate gets up to move, halted by the light touch of a hand on her wrist. It’s weight is insubstantial, more akin to a feather or a breeze. She could brush it off. She stays, more because her hands and legs are shaking the tiniest bit. The way he looks at her, she doesn’t know when the last time anybody looked at her the way he does.

“Then we won’t.” A pianissimo dynamic at play. He grins, toothless, and leans back, casual ‘as you please’. “Your face isn't familiar.”

Her body subconsciously mirrors his. “Thought we already stated the obvious. What did you call it… ‘stranger danger’.” The smile decorating her lips is small but real.

He waves his hand in a careless gesture. “In a county that's this small, it's hard to not notice a new face.” 

“Uh-huh. And? What about my ‘new face’?” 

“Are you planning to move here? To Beacon Hills?” 

A tilt of the head for elaboration. 

His face speaks volumes, and his chin points outside the window they're seated by. “Beacon Hills isn’t exactly known to be a tourist spot.” 

She nods and smiles. “It’s a nice little town.” Kate shouldn’t but what better way than to find out more about the neighborhood. Besides, this Stiles kid seems okay. She doesn’t hate the way he looks at her, a person. “Just looking around. Might see if there’s any job openings.” 

“Oh?” Curious. “What kinda jobs are you looking for?” 

“I’ve got a degree in education.” 

“Ah, a teacher. Which grade did you have in mind?”

Teasing. “High school. Seems like a few kids need to re-learn how to conduct themselves in polite society.”

Teasing. “We’re at a Starbucks. Drinking coffee. Surrounded by other addicted coffee drinkers. And I’m pretty sure I saw more than a few people jump the line to get at their caffeine fix.” His eyebrows raise up in askance, while his head is tilted awkwardly, an emphasis to his words. “Polite, you say.” A jocular scoff laced with a frankly, terrible British accent. He sips his coffee with the pinky of the hand holding the cup out in salute. 

She closes her eyes and shakes her head, entertained. 

Stiles glances around. The place has emptied more as they were talking. “Seems like some spaces have opened up. I should-” 

“Wait!” She didn’t mean to say that. “I mean-” 

“You want to keep talking?” 

“It’s- It wasn’t a bad conversation.” 

“You’ve been trying to get up out of your seat. Twice.” 

“So?” An attempt at an unaffected shrug. “That doesn’t make the conversation bad.” 

“Hmm, I don’t really have long. Mom wants me home before sundown. Safety is important, especially for minors.” His smile is beatific. 

“Oh, right.” She keeps calling him a kid, but she’d actually glossed over that fact during their conversation. “How about exchanging numbers?”

Stiles gives her a look crossed between confusion and slight suspicion. “You want to exchange numbers.” Monotone, accusatory, and confused. He starts to pulls his chair back to get out. 

“I-” Chris is gone, and she has nobody else to talk to. She hasn’t been able to have a conversation like this. Not with anyone else. “It wasn’t a bad conversation” _right?_ she asks silently.

Stiles pulls out his phone and hides his shark smile.

He smells blood in the water.

 

 

****____

 

 

Now, he’s running in the woods. Spok on his collar and a Leshiye ahead of him. _“Fucking first day of high school shit.”_

Stiles runs faster, matching his pace with the Leshiye’s.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you go out in the woods today...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to post this because I'm going to have another lengthy break between this and the next post for reasons. Thank you again for all the support and the love. It's definitely reciprocated in the form of myself getting inspiration, posting the next chapter, and just love. ;D

* * *

 

Woods silent from all around, but for measured breaths and the pounding of feet on uneven ground.

Stiles’ eyes visibly change color, an effect Spok mirrors. Checking that his hood is in place, he pulls up the red multi-purpose scarf Spokój is loosely coiled around in order to cover the lower half of his face. His eyes luminescent in pitch dark.

Treebeard slows his pace and moves as quiet as the midsummer’s breeze. Both the boy and the Leshiye are practically crawling closer to the large source of energy before they stop at a good enough distance to see and hear without a heavy risk of being caught.

The air is saturated with magic, Spokój’s fur standing on end, and the scent of old blood settles low in the air. What they see before them are cloaked figures standing in what seems to be a circle. With Spokój’s shared vision, Stiles can see their mouths moving but producing no sound. He looks back at Treebeard, but the forest guardian has gone pale not unlike deciduous trees in the winter. When the Leshiye looks back at him, there’s determination written all over his face.

Treebeard picks up Stiles from his hiding spot and as soundlessly as they came, they leave.

When they are far enough, Stiles struggles from the Leshiye’s hold.

His voice muffled from the scarf. “Treebeard! Why-They were right there and we could've done something-”

The Leshiye shakes his head. “No, we could not young Ogień. We number only three, and were you not observing those figures?”

Stiles blinks, “Okay, so they outnumber us thirteen to three.” He waves his hand, encompassing the entirety of the tall tree-person. “Look at you! You’re a Leshiye, a guardian of the forest!”

“And you are but a boy just entering his maturity. A state which your familiar cannot help but follow suit.” Treebeard kneels to be at the boy’s level. “We must confer with Mandalei and Alpha Hale. Witches, a coven of them, are not to be trifled with.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow. “Not all witches are bad.”

The Leshiye smiles. “While I agree with your point, Ogień, can you tell me with certainty that you believe their purpose to be well-intended?”

He fidgets with his sleeves and pulls his impromptu mask down. “No. No, you’re right.”

“Tell me exactly what you felt from them.”

Stiles’ brow furrows. “I felt on edge. The air… It was heavy. Kinda suffocating. I think there was blood too, I mean I didn't see it clearly but l thought I smelled it. Coppery, metallic, but more like rusted metal. Not fresh.”

His description earns him an encouraging nod from the Leshiye to continue.

“Even Spock went fuzzy, his fur all on end. I kept thinking, with how they were chanting, I should have been able to hear it. Something, anything. Especially when I tuned in with Spok’s ears. But it was dead silent. Silent chanting doesn't build up that kind of magic and for it to pervade what seemed like the whole wood…” Stiles turns his confused eyes to Treebeard, one trembling hand subconsciously finding Spok.

A creak of wood from Treebeard’s down turned mouth follows. “A forest is meant to be teeming with life and sound. Silence bodes ill, and it is a norm to be found only when the frost settles on the ground and the air goes thin with cold. Not only this, but their chanting was at the border to the Preserve of your Beacon Hills. It seems purposeful that they not cross into the central territory of the Hale Pack while still within proximity of the Nemeton.”

Stiles blinks his eyes, awed and teary. “Dude, can I just say-” a sniffle, “you make nearly all of my LOTR dreams come true. But yeah, definitely not copacetic.”

“...I am glad.”

 

**** 

 

By the time Stiles gets home, it’s near midnight, and the light in the dining room is on. He looks over the wards and the invisible barrier he set up around the property. Silently and without any obvious action, he has the wards allow Treebeard through.

“Hey, Treebeard, do you wanna meet my mom?”

After that question is voiced, Stiles arrives at his back porch with a Leshiye standing behind him. The teenager knocks on the door, three rapid beats followed by four-steady hits in the same rhythm as a heartbeat. The second his hand leaves the door to finish the knock it opens wide allowing light to flood the backyard nearly blinding the three on the grass.

“Hey, mom! I brought my friend Treebeard.” Stiles greets cheerily.

But before his mom can answer, running footsteps can be heard on the second floor and coming down the stairs. Isaac appears like a shot, nothing but a blonde blur to the naked, human eye. He moves to tackle Stiles, but Treebeard intercepts by picking up the slight boy before he can make impact.

“Young Ogień, do you face the threat of attack even in your own home?” The Leshiye brings his handful up for a closer look and blinks twice in curiosity.

Stiles taps on the arm holding his younger brother. “That wasn't an attack. He’s my younger br- I mean-”

“I’m Isaac, his little brother. I was going to tackle-hug, Stiles.” Isaac wiggles in Treebeard’s hold, his feet dangling. “Mind putting me down, sir?”

Treebeard gently sets the boy’s feet on the ground. Once his hold loosened, Isaac jumps on Stiles. “Ah, a ‘tackle-hug’. I see. Well met, young changeling.” The Leshiye notices the woman standing by the door. “Greetings, mother of Ogień. I am Treebeard. A name for which your son has bestowed upon the day our hands first clasped in friendship.” He smiles, followed by the sound of creaking bark.

Claudia’s jaw hangs open.

“Wait, did you just call Isaac a changeling?” Stiles asks, clutching Isaac tight.

“What's a changeling?” Isaac and Claudia ask reflexively, though Isaac does fumble the unfamiliar arrangement of letters into sounding more like ‘change thing’.

Shaking his head, Stiles looks around in recollection of where they are. “Okay, first, why don't we turn off the lights so our neighbors don’t notice our nightly activities. Second-” he gives Treebeard a long look, “-big revelations like that need some serious explaining.”

With the dining room lights off, Claudia left the hallway light on inside and kept the door ajar. Stiles asked Spok for some light, producing a luminous, free-floating foxfire the size of Isaac’s fist and the color of autumn leaves. The human mother, the Spark, the supposed changeling, and the Leshiye seat themselves as comfortably as they can on the backyard porch.

“Sounds like a start to a great ‘walk into a bar’ joke.” Thought Stiles to himself and Spokój. In return, the pipefox pulls on his boy’s ear, a soft bite to hold the reprimanded appendage. Stiles bats at the air around the kudagitsune, nowhere close to making contact.

Isaac laughs at the two, while Claudia clears her throat, bringing the boys back to focus.

Treebeard looks over the family silently and appreciates the soothing atmosphere they have around each other. His announcement never once affecting their perception of the youngest, but for the mild aura of worry and protectiveness they now carry.

“So, Mr…. Treebeard, if I can call you that-” Claudia receives an acquiescent nod. “-you were going to explain how our Isaac was a... hmm... ‘changeling’?” Her eyes narrow and her posture straightens, the image of control.

Stiles and Isaac hold hands, while Spokój stretches across the two boys’ laps.

Treebeard brings a hand up to scratch his beard of leaves. “Changeling is one term I know of to best refer to young Isaac. The aura I sense from the boy is simply an innate sense carried by all Fae, an overarching category that encompasses all sorts of creatures.”

“Wait,” Stiles interrupts, “-I thought.” He brings a hand up to his face, eyes closed. “Changelings. Aren’t they-” the grip he has on Isaac’s hand tightens to near painful, but Isaac holds on just as tight. “Some fairies like to play tricks on people. For one, I know changeling refers to when fairies steal the parents’ human kid and replace the baby with a fairy child.”

Isaac’s voice shakes and his eyes shine wetly. “I’m-”

“Hey,” Stiles wraps an arm around his younger brother’s shoulders. “Human or not, you’re my little brother, Isaac Lahey-Stilinski. Always.” He rests his forehead lightly on the younger’s temple.

Claudia ruffles both her boys’ hair and doesn’t forget to smile at Spokój.

The Leshiye clears his throat and sends a mildly scolding glance at Stiles, mitigated by an impressed eyebrow. “While young Ogién is not incorrect in the definition, I only refer to young Isaac as changeling because it is better translated in his context as being of Fae blood, though not fully. It is likely that one of his parents was a Fae creature, while the other parent was of human descent.”

Isaac tilts his head. “So, I’m half ‘Fae’? Is that why my dad… why my dad hurt me?”

His hair made up of Weeping Willow’s branches dances in the breeze, Treebeard hums. “This is not an impossibility. Often times, if the Fae parent leaves the child to be attended by the human parent, the human parent could grow resentful. No mature, Fae magic to cloud perception and likely triggering some long forgotten instinct to attack what feels strange or different from themselves.”

“My other mom- She died...giving birth to me.” The blond boy pulls on his sleeves. “Well, i-it’s what my dad told me.”

“Fae more oft than not keep to their own kind. This especially when it comes to choosing a spouse and producing children. But Fae are not exempt from impulse or emotion. A number of them prefer to follow their hearts. Your mother was likely aware of her weakening state due in part to the distance from her brethren and her motherlands. Had she bore a child before you?”

Isaac nods. “My other older brother. But he died during the war.”

“Bearing one half-human child takes a toll, but to decide on a second.” Treebeard nods decisively and gives the boy a gentle smile. “It is a dangerous endeavor, of this your mother knew well. But despite the odds, she wanted and loved you, so much so that she gave her remaining power and life to bring you into this world. She wished nothing more than to give you life, young Isaac.”

“Dude, moms are badass.” Stiles quips and doesn’t hide his teary state or the smile he sends to his own mom.

“Yeah, they are,” Isaac answers shakily. Tears openly pouring down his face, he clutches Claudia, Stiles, and Spokój to him.

 

****

 

Last night was exhausting both physically and emotionally, but Stiles still goes to school. His mom told him he had the option to take off, but that it wouldn’t reflect well on him. He really appreciates how understanding and how practical his mom is about relaying options.

He’d hugged Isaac after walking the younger boy to the elementary school’s entrance and only felt better when he saw the rest of his pack was already congregated. The others will provide a good distraction to what could have been an emotionally draining day.

Stiles rubs his eyes and covers his yawn. The only reason his head is even in an upright position is because of the hand holding it up. It’s a good thing he finished off his homework for the week yesterday, otherwise he’d have to pay attention to what’s going on in class. He’s just listening with half an ear to the teacher droning on about syntax and participles.

He just has to hold out through this class then lunch, then its his last class before the final bell rings to finish the school day. Whether or not he should curse the fact that his schedule has lunch before his last class is something he’s still thinking about.

The lunch bell rings and everybody quickly gets out of their seats only half-hearing the teacher’s announcement on picking a book for their mid-term book report.

Stiles is so exhausted that he misses the sticky note in his notebook flying off to land on the floor.

 

****

 

Derek keeps his eyes on Stiles and instantly sees the piece of fly away paper. He picks it up before anybody else can start stepping on the thing and reads:  
‘Call Peter: 13 ♀ & (filled in circle) rituals’

Thirteen women and… what? Rituals? And why does he have to call Uncle Peter about it?

The thirteen going on fourteen-year old brings the note with him and catches up to the brunette boy. He didn’t miss the other’s head nodding off throughout the day. Between his own worries about the other’s exhaustion and his own growing suspicion of the note, Derek just moves to action without much forethought.

A simple tap on the shoulder to catch Stiles’ attention turned into the boy jumping and flailing hard enough to nearly unbalance if Derek’s arm hadn’t quickly caught his waist. Honestly, it’s a completely reflexive action when he brings Stiles up and closer, their chests pressed together. Faces inches apart, they both blink at each other nonplussed. A blush simultaneously forming on both their cheeks.

Until Stiles tries to push against his chest, but Derek’s not trying to control his strength, so all the other boy ends up doing is flailing fruitlessly.

“Stiles.”

It’s the same tone he’s heard his Derek do before, but the voice is adolescent and attempting to calm rather than reprimand. Stiles stops and simply rests his hands on the other boy’s wider chest to pointedly attempt pushing off one more time. It doesn’t work.

“You know I’m stronger than you.” He doesn’t let go.

Stiles bites his lip and exhales noisily.

“What, Derek?” He says snidely, embarrassed and uneasy with how open they are to being overheard since they are standing in the middle of the hallway. Though one consolation is that the majority of students have all gone to the cafeteria, leaving only a handful of stragglers seeing them.

Derek’s jaw clenches, a muscle jumping. He shoves the note in front of Stiles’ face. “For starters, mind telling me what this is about?”

Looking at the note then back at Derek, Stiles snatches at the paper. At least, he tries to.

Older by a year and taller by two-inches, Derek’s arm has no problem holding the note away from Stiles’ reach, and it also helps that he still has a hold on Stiles’ waist to keep him somewhat immobile.

“You really wanna keep holding onto me like this in front of the whole school?” The captured boy points out the number of eyes and ears already aimed their way.

Derek abruptly moves his arm, only to wrap his hand entirely around the smaller boy’s wrist. He walks them over to an empty alcove away from the main hallway.

“Now, why do you need to call Uncle Peter about thirteen women and-” Derek looks back at the note, his brow furrows. “A filled in circle… New moon rituals?” His tone confused and worried.

Stiles takes calming breaths in answer, and Derek can clearly hear the boy’s rapid heart rate dropping to its normal baseline.

“Well? Are you going to answer me?” Derek persists but with the continued silence, his expression pinches. “You’re seriously going to keep quiet, just so I don’t hear-”

“Hale!” A third boy appears, basketball in hand. “We’ve been looking all over-”

Taking advantage of the distraction, Stiles quickly rips the note from Derek uncaring of its tattered pieces and walks away.

“Stiles!” Derek yells at the other’s back. About to chase after him, but he’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder. When he turns around, it takes every ounce of his control to keep himself from growling at the interloper.

“Hey, man. What’s up with you and Nail polish boy? Some kinda problem?” There’s a gleam in his eye that Derek misses due in part to his attention being still on Stiles’ distancing heart rate.

“No.” Derek taps the basketball out of the other’s hands. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s go get lunch.”

 

****

 

Just as the final bell rings, Stiles rushes out of school and heads straight for his mom’s car.

“Hey, Mom.”

Claudia only needs one glance at Stiles to take back her cheerful greeting. “Hey, Stiles. Long day?”

Stiles sighs, lips sealed. “You could say that.” He pulls out the ripped paper and crumples it into a ball.

The drive is silent on the way to Isaac’s school. By the time they arrive, the tense atmosphere in the car has dissipated. Stiles’ mood lightens when he sees Isaac with the rest of the Pack.

Jackson’s got one arm over Isaac’s shoulder, while the other arm is giving the boy a noogie. Scott’s smiling and laughing at the two, followed by Erica and Boyd. Danny and Lydia shake their heads at the rest, but grin widely, somehow looking like those picturesque children on a home magazine cover.

The group spreads out to their respective cars.

Isaac’s face smiles so wide his cheeks might as well be doing splits. It would take a heart of stone not to smile back. The boy runs to the car and is followed by none other than Scott McCall. Both are breathless by the time Isaac opens the back door of the Jeep.

“Hey, Mom! Stiles!” Says Isaac, excited.

“Hey, Miss Cloud. Hi, Stiles!” Says Scott, just as --if not more so-- excited. “Mom said I was riding with you?”

Claudia smiles gently. “Yup, your mom called me earlier. They’re a little short of people at the hospital. Hope you don't mind hanging out at Casa Stilinski.” She winks.

“No way! That'd be awesome?” Scott looks at Stiles.

The teenager’s face is frowning heavily to which Isaac responds with a punch to his brother’s shoulder, making Stiles break character. He laughs at the two. “Dude, it’d be the most awesome. Get in here, you tiny tots.”

“We had tater tots today.” Scott supplies, as the two climb into the car.

“That makes you cannibals.”

“What's a cannibal?” Scott asks.

Isaac shakes his head at the two. “A cannibal is-”

Before Claudia can move to pull the car out of the parking lot, more than one hand knocks at the right, passenger-side door. After a quick peek down, Stiles slowly opens the door, making sure not to hit anyone.

“Hi, Stiles. Mrs. Stilinski.” Lydia greets, well-mannered. Erica tugs a stray hair behind her ear, while Boyd shuffles his feet behind her. Danny and Jackson stand flanking the red-head.

“If Scott gets to go, we should too.” Jackson interrupts, haughty. “Hey, Stiles!”

Claudia huffs a laugh, “I think for that you’d need your parents’ permission. But I don't really have enough room in the Jeep.”A shrug.

Lydia’s smile can compete with angels. “Of course, Mrs. Stilinski. We already asked and our parents said it was alright, as long as you were okay with it.” And cue the pleading puppy dog eyes from shades of green, blue, and dark browns.

Glancing at her eldest, she smirks. “Somebody’s popular.”

“Please, mom?” Isaac pleads with his own angelic, puppy eyes.

Claudia looks at all the puppy eyes aimed her way. She turns to Stiles, “You know you’ll be looking after them all, right? The station might call me over for something, and I have my current cases to look through-”

“Mom.” Stiles gently grips her shoulder. “No worries. I can look out for them.”

“But your homework.” Her brow pinches. “And are you still planning to.” Claudia’s chin tilts to the side. “You know.” And now, her head is bobbing and pointing.

Stiles’ gapes and squints, trying to make sense of what his mother is referring to.

The kids all giggle at the teen and the adult’s pantomime.

Claudia pouts and her eyes exhibit mild disappointment. “I’m talking about Treebeard.”

“Oh!” Stiles blinks in comprehension. “Oh, it’s cool. That’s set for Friday.”

Scott whispers to Isaac about how trees can have beards, but is given an answer about shrubs and ferns that look like mustaches. An answer that enthralls all the kids, except Lydia and Danny who keep their eyes on Stiles and his mom.

“Really?” Claudia’s tone is skeptical, but weakening in its resolve. “Alright. For how long did your parents’ say?”

“Just ‘til 5, Ma’am.” Replied Lydia, sweet as molasses.

Claudia knows when she’s been beaten. “You kids call me, Miss Claud. Ma’am makes me feel old.” A comically scrunched nose.

 

**** 

  
Back at the Stilinski’s house, Stiles is in the kitchen baking some sweet potato fries in the oven along with parmesan-sprinkled asparagus and sautéing well-seasoned chicken breasts on the stove. Isaac and Scott stand by, helping with the plates, utensils, and acting as unofficial sous chefs.

“You sure you don't need a hand, kochanek?” Claudia asks as she moves her mishmash of case files off of the dining table.

“We’re good mom.”

Claudia piles her files together in no particular order. Just as her small tower is stable in her arms, she notices a highlighter rolling to stop at the edge of the table, but before she finishes a breath of relief, it rolls off to fall to the floor. Her foot edges out to kick the highlighter out in the open to pick up later, but ends up kicking it under the table. Her sigh might as well be as heavy as her total weight of one-hundred and twenty-five pounds.

Until Isaac appears and picks up the highlighter. He offers it to her. “Okay, Mom?”

She smiles bright, “I am now, my little knight.” Claudia bends down, her papers held tight, to give Isaac a quick kiss on the crown of his head.

The chiming ring of the doorbell echoes throughout the house.

“Can somebody get that? I’ve gotta keep my eye on the food.” Yells Stiles, while closing one eye to facetiously exaggerate his words to the amused purview of Scott.

“Uh-huh!” Claudia quickly places her bundle back on the table and power walks to the door with Isaac, just a step behind.

Opening the door, she’s greeted to the sight of Virginia Whittemore and Alicia Reyes along with the children crowded around their feet. The former is dressed in a cream business skirt-suit with wide, black buttons coming down the middle of the jacket, a white button-down shirt underneath. On the other hand, the latter is dressed in the Sheriff’s Office uniform fitted comfortably and holster strapped tight. Both women smile sheepishly back at Claudia.

“Hey, Vi. Ali.” Claudia nods at the two women before opening the door wider to let everyone in.

“Good to see you, again, Claudia. Are you sure it’s okay for the kids to drop by?” Virginia asks worriedly.

“Yeah, these kids practically strong-armed the whole thing, but we can call it off like that, Claudi.” Alicia assures with a snap of her fingers.

“I bet they did.” Claudia chuckles, as the herd of children stampede into the house, making a beeline for the kitchen. She looks back at them, smile all the more sincere. “It’s okay,” she reassures. “I’ve recruited my teenager and my youngest to be responsible. You know Stiles and Isaac.”

Alicia giggles, while Virginia nods with a wide smile. “Your two boys are amazing. If ever you need the favor returned, I’m only a phone call away.” Virginia uses the ‘call me’ gesture to emphasize her point, her smile all the more honest in its pleased, yet flustered, way.

“Ditto on my part, Claudi.” Alicia winks and adds a thumbs up, playful.

“Thanks. We’ll be alright, really.”

“Much as I'd love to talk more with you, Claudia, I’m expected at the office for a conference call. It's more of a formality, but such is the need to exchange niceties in business.” Virginia rolls her eyes and shrugs her shoulders at Claudia’s laughter.

“I’ve gotta be at the Sheriff’s office to finish up the rest of my shift. This little window was just enough to pick up Erica and Boyd.” Alicia tugs on her pony tail lightly.

Claudia gently stops the fingers from tugging too hard, a gentle smile on her lips.

“And like I told you, Alicia. I have absolutely no problem with taking all the kids.” Virginia places a hand on Alicia’s arm, squeezing.

“Thanks again, Vi.” Alicia grins.

Both women give Claudia a tight hug. “We’ll be back by 5, on the dot. Call us if you need anything. Lord knows those kids are a handful, especially together. You kids better be good for Miss Claud!” Alicia calls out into the kitchen, a chorus of ‘we will’ responding to her.

The brunette woman waves the two blonds off with an amused grin, closing the door. Turning back around, she sees that the kids are well-handled, so she goes to pick up her paperwork. Once she has everything on hand, including her wayward highlighter, she stops at the bottom of the steps. “If you need me, I’ll be in my office. And don't forget to answer the phone, we might get calls from the station. And don’t hesitate to get me for whatever reason, even if it's not an emergency-”

“Mom, we got it. We got it. Go on and be the better early 2000s, female version of Sherlock Holmes!” Stiles calls out as he turns off the stove and the oven.

She laughs at the statement. “Elementary, my dear Watson.” Claudia rebuts in a barely passable English accent before she walks up the stairs, her footsteps soft.

“Hey, we’re in elementary!” Scott announces.

“Duh, Scotty.” Jackson supplies with all the attitude his nine-year old self can offer, which is a lot.

“It’s a play on words Sherlock Holmes is famous for, right Stiles?” Lydia bats her eyes and twirls one of the many coiffed curls in her hair.

“Right-oh, Little Lady Lydia.” Stiles answers, his attention on carefully plating the food, thus missing the pout said little lady sends his way. “And ease up on serving those ‘duh’ answers Jax, you don't wanna be known as the ‘duh’ guy, do ya?” Finished with the food, he ruffles Scott’s and Jackson’s hair, while smiling back at Isaac, Erica, and Boyd snickering together.

Danny, ever the observer, laughs at everyone, earning a sharp elbow to his side from Lydia.

“Stiles! I really… um, I really really like your nails.” Erica’s voice starts strong but starts to taper off when she notices nearly everyone’s attention is on her.

Stiles offer his nails out to the suddenly shy girl. “Thanks, Eri! I’m planning on changing them soon, but I dunno which colors to pick. Wanna help me out?”

The blond nods vigorously. “Yeah!”

Jealous at the other’s received attention, Lydia asks: “Can I help pick the nail colors, too?”

Both girls look at each other, lasers for eyes.

Danny watches the commotion quietly and pokes at the fries to check if they’re still too hot to eat. Scott, oblivious to the situation, has his eyes riveted to the too orange than usual fries and purposely ignores the green sprigs of vegetable. Boyd, Isaac, and Jackson too sensitive to emotions not to notice the situation take a step back from the possible line of fire.

Cautious, Stiles brings up both hands in appeasement. “Now, now ladies. I’ve got two hands. Erica can do the right. Lydia can do the left. And next time, we switch sides.”

“Fine.” The two girls huff, until they realize something: color coordination. They couldn't simply pick just any color if the other side couldn't act as a complement.

“Pink.” Says, Erica. “And light blue?”

“Like a summery spring. And cotton candy.” Lydia nods in agreement. “The other side can be green and dark blue?”

“…maybe not cotton candy?” Erica asks, twirling a lock of her hair.

“We’ll keep working on it.” Lydia assures with a wave of her hand. The two girls go to sit side by side at the cleared dining table discussing different themes to match.

All the boys, except Scott, breathe easy after avoiding what could have been a terrible argument.

The air is light and comfortable. Afternoon rays painting the world a bright white with hues of chartreuse blades be it leaf or grass and vivid pastels be it petal or bud. From his periphery, Stiles can spot Brownies busily bustling. The honey and milk he leaves on the porch for them always disappears. No waste left behind and no time left idle.

It’s almost enough to distract his attention. Only almost.

Stiles brings the dishes one at a time to the table and asks the others to carry the lighter utensils and placemats. As they eat at the table, he listens through one ear for the kids before suddenly his phone starts vibrating, kept on silent for the school day. Checking the screen notification, he sees that-

It's a call from Kate.

He ignores it.

Stiles focuses back on the kids, smiling and nodding at the amusing anecdote of their time spent at school. In the middle of Scott re-enacting the moment when chocolate milk came out of Jackson’s nose, the vibration of his phone breaks his laughter just enough for the notice of young ears. Bright, little eyes of varying shades are riveted to his pocket.

He grits his teeth so hard, they hurt.

“Stiles?” Isaac asks, plaintive.

“Aren’t you gonna answer your phone?” Lydia adds. “Both my parents carry their phones everywhere because the calls they get are ‘too important’ to ignore,” She picks at one of the fries on her plate. “Especially when they’re talking to me.” The last part she whispers to herself, but it doesn’t go unheard by Erica and Danny. The two kids scooting closer, surreptitiously.

“Believe me when I say, this phone call isn’t more important than the time I get to spend with you guys.” Stiles purposely presses on the red, ‘end call’ button. His statement receives gummy smiles dressed with bits of fries. “Now, how about you eat the balanced meal I made and try some of the green stuff and the chicken.”

“Uh- I’m allergic to green.” Scott blurts out.

An answer ruined by the stifled spittles of laughter gustily escaping through the gaps of little hands, Boyd’s shoulders shaking along with every chuckle. Isaac shakes his head and, knowing his brother, wordlessly eats the vegetable and protein. The girls and Danny follow suit, their faces skewed until they finish the first bite; faces affixed into pleased confusion. Lastly, Jackson takes one glance at Stiles’ resolute face and vigorously chews through the vegetable likely in the hopes of somehow masticating it so finely that the taste would escape him.

Recognizing his lonesome state, Scott sighs mightily and eats his asparagus laboredly.

Stiles’ phone vibrates shortly one more time, but it goes unheeded and without much notice.

In the middle of finishing his own set of fries, Stiles’ attention turns to a cleared throat.

Scott feigns a casual manner, obvious as he rolls the remaining asparagus on his plate with a fork. “So, like, is the person who keeps making your phone go bzzz that guy?”

Sincerely confused. “That guy?” Asks Stiles.

The little boy sits up straighter, along with the rest.

“Y’ know… That guy,” Dark brows wrinkle along with a sharp nose. “From the park?” Eyes wide in frustration. “He turned your smile upside down,” Scott pouts and his uneven jaw lifts, stubborn. “And that’s not okay, okay?” His point emphasized by the thump of his small fist on the table and the collective nods of everyone at the table.

Touched, Stiles leans over from his seat at the head of the table to Scott, who’s seated at his right. “Scotty. Little dude,” His bigger hand cards through the younger’s curly, brown mop. “My other broseph from another mother. My asthmatic knight in muddy converse. The handsome, little prince to my fox-”

“Stiles!” Scott and the rest of the kids giggle when the teen puckers his lips exaggeratedly to give the little boy a kiss on the cheek.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Planned meetings. Unplanned conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Text message dialogue is underlined.  
> Also new characters:  
> -Cyrus=played by Avan Jogia  
> \- the others are more vague, generic descriptions-- please feel free to imagine any image my words may bring
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry this took so long. Life gets busy, so I likely won't be able to post very soon or soon for that matter. To all the people still reading and the people who decide to try out this fic, a lot of appreciation and love for any hits, kudos, subscriptions, and bookmarks.

* * *

 

All the kids, except Scott, give Stiles and Isaac a hug while a smattering mix of waving and hugging is done for Claudia; their ride waiting outside. Two Stilinskis, one Lahey-Stilinski, and one McCall stand on the front porch to wave the gaggle of kids and Mrs. Whittemoore off. Large smiles on everyone’s faces.

Isaac and Scott run back in the house. Claudia following sedately and reminding them not to run around inside.

Stiles closes the door behind him and palms the cell phone in his pocket. As he’s walking back to gather the plates at the table, Isaac tugs on his shirt.

 “We’ll wash the plates.” The blond announces.

Confused, Scott asks: “Why? I don't really like doing chores, but mom says I have to, so I help sometimes. She says I’m too little to take the trash out but not to wash plates and stuff. ”

Isaac nods agreeably. “Stiles cooked, and we ate it. So we gotta clean it up.”

Not sure she wants their guest, albeit a very familiar one, to help with chores, Claudia intercepts, “Isaac-”

“Oh!” Scott exclaims. “Okay.”

“Come on, Scotty.” Isaac urges the other boy on, and they gather the plates carefully. The clinking of metal forks and ceramic plates fill the open space of the house’s first floor.

Claudia looks to her eldest and sees a face torn between fondness, confusion, and some indescribable thing she can’t pin down.

“Stiles? Did you not want them to wash the dishes?” Her own confusion is obvious.

He grips the phone in his pocket tighter. Spokój sending a warning thought at hearing the creak of plastic, since he’s wrapped around his boy's wrist. Stiles takes a quick breath, “Do you remember Isaac’s first few weeks with us?”

Claudia remembers those days clearly, even now she still finds it difficult to gauge when best to apply a firm reprisal without making the boy flinch.

At that time, Isaac was not quiet. He was silent. Deathly fearful of putting a toe, much less a breath, out of line. Quick to take on some chore without prompting and frantic to clean after himself, whether it be an accidental spill with water or a smudge left on the floor-- a by product of rubber running rough along linoleum.

“I remember.” She goes to Stiles and tweaks his nose gently. His wide eyes, crossed down his nose makes her laugh. “But this isn’t the same.” Claudia reassures. Her dimpled smile mirrored by the still baby-faced cheeks of her eldest. It won't be long before he grows taller than her, his face growing lean because his height grows faster than the amount of food he eats. Thankfully her own metabolism was still holding out, but this just reminds her of John's own complaints about his depleting metabolism when he didn't get a chance to workout that day.

Honeyed brown meets its darker reflection.

Stiles breathes out slowly, freehand already intertwined in Spokój’s loose coils. “No, it’s not.”

 “I’ll keep an eye on them. Are you going to be okay?”

 A bob of his Adam’s apple. “Yeah… I... I’m gonna go to the garden.”

“Take as much time as you need, gwiazdko. And don’t forget to take some left-overs for Spokój.” She ruffles Stiles’ hair and pointedly scritches a finger along Spokoj’s tail, making the kudagitsune fluff up in reaction.

Claudia walks away to give her child the space he need not ask for. Some might call her parenting too lax, but she doesn’t miss how special and different her child is: the intelligence shining in his eyes since he was born, the nearly effortless magic since he was four, the creature always by his side since the day her husband was buried. As human as she may be, she knows the careful line she treads for knowing as much as she does.

She lets him run with tree-people, practice his magic, and lead her to her second child. Szczepan is her child, first and foremost, even with the secrets he won’t divulge. This only makes the protective-love of a parent inside her rise closer to the surface, in her actions. In her demeanor.

What more can she do for her magical child, but love him as he is and protect him with all she has.

 

****

 

The second he steps out on the back porch, he kicks his purple converse off. Toes wiggling in the summer grass, he goes to the Rowan tree he’d planted when he was ten. Uncaring of the stains likely to decorate his jeans, Stiles sits and leans back on the now taller and thicker trunk. Here, he can better see the Brownies, who'd moved nearby, pause to look at him and he smiles back at their curiosity.

Spokój unravels to settle on the bent knee level with his boy’s chest. 

He can see his reflection in the fathomless, void-like eyes of his friend, and he reaches out to run a hand over the kudagitsune’s ears. Using his other hand to pull out the phone in his pocket, he reads the text she sent him an hour and forty-five minutes ago:

 

 Kate: Stiles? Why aren't you answering?

 

Stiles had some idea of what his impromptu plan for Kate would involve. Getting closer to her by pretending to care about her, listening to her problems, and --best of all-- making sure his intrinsic desire to kill her is hidden from view. Until he is absolutely sure that he can change her mind, he’s always going to judge her guilty before proven innocent. He texts back.

 

Stiles: sry.babysitting

 

Kate: Oh. Well, you could've texted

 

Stiles: my bad. Lots of kids to look after. ;)

 

Kate: Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I was calling to ask when you’d be free next week?

 

He thumps his head back against the tree, disturbing the Brownies that had been leaning back on it next to him.

“Sorry.” Stiles glances down at them and rubs the back of his head sheepishly. 

 _“You really don't like that girl, do you?”_ Spokój comments. One eye open in judgment. 

_“No, I don't. Aren't you going to ask why?”_

A puff of a smoke cloud overcomes the kudagitsune’s shape perched on his knee. From the smoke, a silver fox appears in its place. Said fox jumps down and fits well-enough to settle on Stiles’ lap as its tail hangs off to the side of his hip. 

 _“Spok?”_  

Stiles leans his face closer to the foxes’ and gets a rough tongue licking the tip of his nose. The teen giggles and makes a face at the slimy sensation on his face. Using the shoulder of his shirt, he wipes his nose and then buries it into Spokój’s now fluffier back. The smell of petrichor, lightning, and smoked wood fills his nose; a storm upon an open field but for the lone oak, its side blackened, standing tall.

_“Stiles, you should answer her. Even if you hate her, your plan won’t come to anything if you drive her away.”_

Spokój snuffles his muzzle along his boy’s hair. Puffing breaths making the hairs dance to the rhythm of inhale-exhale. 

Stiles texts details about meeting back at the same Starbucks next Friday. Her response arrives quickly, as if her attention had never left her cell-phone screen.

 

Kate: Ok! Can't wait. So are you better with texting than phone calls?

 

He could interpret the last message in a lot of ways, but Stiles can hear her annoyance at being ignored, loud and clear.

 

Stiles: sorta. I don't have unltd, so I dont txt or call much

 

Kate: Oh. I can help

 

Stiles:?

 

Kate: I can give you money to pay for the unlimited plan

 

Stiles: No

 

Kate: But how else can we keep in touch?

 

Stiles: shrug. ‘sides ‘snot like i’m only 1 u can talk 2

 

A few more minutes pass before she answers back this time. Stiles can't help the small sense of accomplishment he feels at deducing this part of her personality-- a lingering resentment at her father’s heavy hand and a desperate need to be recognised as her own person. One side of his mouth tilts up.

 

Kate: …snot... Wow. The vocabulary of a high school student.You need help. :P And you know.

 

Stiles: :P not rly. Idk u well

 

Kate: What’s ‘Idk’?

 

Stiles: I don't know :P. Literally the letters.

 

Kate: Oh. Useful. Anyway…The reason for why I wanna talk to you more should be obvious. Duh. Plus, i’m not staying permanently, yet, so next week will be my last free one before I go back. I’ll cover your text plan

 

Stiles: No, Kate.

 

Kate: ‘A+’ for proper grammar. Just send me your bill, and I’ll cover it.

 

Stiles: Kate, no. Ur grading isn't valid. ur not my teacher

 

Kate: Yet. I will be next year. ;) And you meant to say “Kate, yes.” It’s going to happen.

 

Stiles: N how’s that if u dunno my bill

 

Kate: I have my ways. See ya next week! ;)

 

He’s already been texting too much (in his opinion), so next week will have to be the chance to talk her out of it. Stiles’ brow furrows at a peculiar thought that's just struck him.

_“Yes.”_

Eyeballing his companion. _“I hadn't even finished the thought.”_

 _“Then, I was finishing it for you.”_ Spokój nudges Stiles’ forehead until the boy ends up rolling over on his back.

Stiles starfishes out on the grass and traces the pinpricks of sunlight shimmering through the branches and leaves. Eyes inevitably falling on the budding berries.  

 _“Do I need to call him?”_  

 _“You fought with that boy about a note to remind yourself to call him.”_  

_“Ever the epitome of logic, Mr. Spok.”_

_“Not a Vulcan.”_

Spokój lays across his boy’s chest with a thump, a punishment.

The brunette lets his fingers sink into Spokój’s fur, and uses the other hand to start dialing.

“Hello, Stiles. Miss me already?” A slightly husky and not very deep voice comes through the phone, already smarmy.

“Hey, Peter. I’ve got some news you and Talia need to know. ”

“Oh. Well, color me interested. But you do know you can call me for anything, instead of just Pack related things.”

Stiles huffs. “Yes, but I don't have unlimited, as I said so before.”

“And I said I don't mind covering you.” Peter cajoles.

Miraculously (insert: sarcasm), or smugly, Spokój raises a pointed brow at his human.

 Stiles chuffs and rolls his eyes.

“Have I said something funny? Because, I wasn't joking. I’ve already asked your mother, and I just need to make one more call before she gives me the okay.” 

“You leave Mom out of this.”

“Leave me out of what, Szczepan?” Claudia interrupts with a plate of leftovers in one hand. “You forgot to pick up a plate for Spokój.” She sets the dish of fries and chicken down on the grass.

_“Yeah, Stiles. You forgot my plate.”_

The kudagitsune moves off towards the plate but not without swishing his tail under Stiles’ nose, making the boy sneeze.

“Gezundheit, Anastasia.”

“Sorry, mum.” Stiles looks up at her upside down, still laying on the grass. A hand stretches out to pat her sensible shoes and leaves them laying there. “I’m talking to Peter.”

“Ah.” Claudia smiles and crouches down. “If he’s still offering to cover your phone bill, why not let him? Don't think I don’t notice your limited social circle.” She grips the fingers on her shoes. 

“I heard that, and since Miss Claud has given the okay, your input is no longer needed.”

Stiles can hear the smirk Peter is undoubtedly sporting. He sighs, gustily.

“This isn't actually what I was calling you about, Aurie.”

“It's Aurelius, like the Roman Emperor. You know this.”

“Fair play is fair.” 

“All’s fair in love and war.” 

“I don’t know about love. But this could be war.”Stiles responds deadpan. Alarming both his mom and Peter into simultaneously saying:‘ _What?’_ He looks at his mom’s alarmed face and sits up.

“Mom, maybe you should-”

“I’m staying right here, Szczepan.” Claudia insists and sees her son’s lips purse before they go flat. They both have their stubborn tells.

He keeps the phone close, talking to both of them. “Well, we don’t have all the information. But Treebeard confirmed that what we saw was a coven of witches gathering and chanting near the border of Beacon Hills.”

“They picked their location smartly enough not to be noticed by Talia. Wait- Treebeard?”

“My Leshiye friend.”

“A Leshiye named after an Ent from Lord of the Rings?” 

“It’s a nickname, and not really the point.”

(“It’s certainly _a_ point.” Peter mutters to himself, which Stiles ignores.)

“What about the spell. Did you catch any of the words?”

“Nope. There was a barrier or something. Like a sound vacuum. Couldn't hear a thing, and it was midnight on a new moon in the middle of the woods. Which, yeah, really weird.”

“Interesting.”

Claudia adds, “Witches getting together like that is bad?”

“If all they were doing was blessing the land or something harmless, they wouldn't have made sure everything was kept silent. Whatever they were doing, they didn't want anyone knowing what they were saying.” Stiles brushes a hand through his hair.

“Good point, Russian princess.” 

“Thanks, Roman emperor. Anyway, I was thinking you, Talia, Mandalei, me, Spok, and Treebeard-”

“And me.” Claudia asserts as only a mother could. 

Stiles rubs his eye with the heel of his palm, an argument just at the edge of his lips but unwilling to take away his mom’s right to stay informed. “I figure we could all meet this weekend or maybe Friday night to discuss everything.”

“I’ll call Talia to confirm. Friday night sounds good for me.” Says Peter. 

“Friday night?” Stiles turns to his mom.

There’s nothing exemplary going on with the local criminal population, so Claudia can call off without much questioning.

“Friday night.”

 

****  

Thank G-d It’s Friday is a phrase he can live by. Backpack strap slung over one shoulder and nibbling the whole-grain, tuna sandwich in his left hand, the lunch bell rings overhead. Stiles carefully loses himself in the lunch rush to dodge a certain green-eyed teen wolf, while making sure to keep from being pulled into the current headed to the cafeteria.

Now, he’s free from the crowd. Aimlessly wandering, keeping to unoccupied spaces. Spokój, wrapped around his neck, directs him with pointed ears. The kudagitsune’s body in a loop, colours so dark they absorb all others but for the patches of a burned sun near his neck and shoulders; head placed right over Stiles’ Adam’s apple.

_“People up ahead, behind the set of doors. They sound angry.”_

Stiles would never call himself a hero. Sure, he loves Batman for DC, Iron Man for Marvel. And given the choice between the caped crusader or the plucky sidekick, well. He’d always done a better job than Scott of making his voice hoarse. Then, again, the epic performance of Heath Ledger as Joker did make him question a lot about himself. Because the reality is, he’s not the self-sacrificing hero ready to give his all for everyone, strangers and the ilk.

But. 

Despite the instinctive reason driving him to turn away from problems not involving him, he walks quieter and closer to the doors ahead. Stiles tilts his head a little to the side and hears the familiar thwack of a fist hitting a clothed gut. The recipient releasing an age old grunt of air, forcefully escaping lungs, suddenly pushed by a rising diaphragm. It’s followed by the unoriginal sadistic satisfaction of bullies, plural, chuckling as if gaining some achievement in establishing nature’s eat or be eaten philosophy along with the shallow affirmation of mob-mentality.

Stiles starts to stand up and walk away, until he hears a word. This word exists among the spiraling toilet swirl of multitudinous slurs and stereotypes. Each one born and made to prove evident the divide of superior and inferior, person and other. A collapsing center.

“Get up off your knees, faggot. Nobody here’s interested in fucking a sick freak like you.” 

The voice is male, attempting to sound gruff and tough and any other ‘uff’ sounding word, likely the self-proclaimed alpha male of the group. Somehow seeking superiority in the act of dehumanization and yet, inarguably, very human. Pulled from one extreme to the other by a too quick succession and in the next moment, broken.

 _“Stiles.”_ Spokój whispers his name. One word to bring him back to the moment.

Stiles pushes back: _“Don’t move unless I say so. No matter what happens.”_ Carefully, he steps forward to peek through the little windows of the doors. The sight before him is typical: teenagers circling downed prey. But the most infuriating aspect of the scene is seeing resignation, capitulation in one set of eyes, bowed and bent. Jeering voices given power to uproot and break.  

His memory conjures up a parallel yet perpendicular moment. Bowed and bent with parts broken, but struggling. Black, blue, and red but for fiercely shining honey-brown. Painfully aware of the two behind him, shackled and electrocuted. The piecemeal shield protecting blood, rusted swords. 

Unbeknownst to Stiles, Spokój shares everything with his boy--memory, emotion, and time. He does and doesn't know the old man, whose fist is scraped and bloodied from his boy’s face. He can feel Stiles’ longer limbs, the boy’s older age, and recognizes the two others in the memory as older, different from the children he’s seen his boy look after. The little blonde girl whose brain makes her shake and go stiff; long, blonde curls in disarray, a young woman with ruby, red lips smeared at the edges, and tears falling down her cheeks. A lonely dark-skinned boy no longer lonely anymore; sweating, trembling, and fearful despite being a bigger and more muscular young man with blood staining the metal shackles around his wrists, a forced silence in empty bravado. Spokój has always known his boy was and is special in more ways than one. The kudagitsune was born with a name, and his boy gave him another one.

 _“Stiles, they’re going to see you."_ Spokój reminds, quietly.

He tosses his bag down to the side of the doors, sandwich half finished and stowed away inside. After a quick spell to keep his things from being seen by others, he shoves the door open. Satisfaction curling in his chest at the resounding bang.

“Hey!” Stiles calls out. “Lunch is almost done. Any of you kinder-wannabes wanna grow up before the bell rings and brings a teacher along?”

All the people in the group look at him and each other in confusion.

The initial shock from the group quickly dissipates when they see it's only a skinny, freshman calling out to them. Even the victim still surrounded by the group shakes his head and rolls his dark, brown-- near black-- eyes.

A dirty-blond haired boy with light eyes and a fair-build of muscle moves forward, light-blue polo and khaki shorts only emphasizing the guy’s disingenuous, preppy looks. “You’re that kid who’s a year younger than everybody in your class, right? Seems like you should be the one focusing on growing up, kiddo.” The guy ruffles his hair patronizingly.” A sneer shaping his mouth; the same voice that uttered the slur before. “How about you leave, before I decide to break you like a twig?” He cracks his knuckles.

Stiles responds by casually slapping the offending appendage away. The younger brunette can easily guess how the guy probably sees himself as some kind of born leader, which he’d bet on it somehow relating to the guy’s big mouth plus his attitude. Literally, it wouldn't surprise him if the guy used its enlarged state to compensate for pinky-sized things. He’s far from intimidated or impressed and, really has no other choice but to snort in amused disbelief.

Enraged, the bully grabs Stiles’ collar and pulls him up, his toes grazing the floor.

 _“Do not move, Spok.”_ Stiles reminds quietly when he feels Spokój tense around his neck. _“Not until I say so.”_

_“Fine. If prep boy touches me or does anything I don't like, all bets are off.”_

Stiles doesn't even try fighting the smile blooming from his mouth.

“The hell are you smiling about.” Prep boy, as named by Spok, shoves Stiles roughly against the wall, making Stiles’ head bounce back.

He winces at the impact, a dull pain. His hands move on their own to grip the arm holding him up.

Prep boy glances down, a strange glint in his eyes when he sees the younger boy’s painted nails. “A guy wearing nail polish.” He leans his face closer, only a few inches from Stiles’. “You trying to help your fellow faggot?”

_“Spokój, get ready.”_

 

****

 

Derek had gone to the outdoor tables with the others to keep them from looking for him, again. The kind of stuff he could talk to Stiles about had nothing to do with them. He left with an excuse he didn't even remember. It was probably about Paige, since that's all anyone would bother him about. Sure, he noticed that the cellist wasn't sitting in the cafeteria or anywhere at the tables on the quad like he and his friends. But before that, he noticed Stiles leaving quickly to get lost in the cafeteria crowd only to never even reach the lunchroom doors. He didn't miss the smell of a decent tuna sandwich in the younger boy’s bag. He’s not going to give up on whatever that note said, not to forget the fact his mom announced Peter coming back tonight, even if the latter wasn't that uncommon. Too much of a coincidence to just _be_ a coincidence.

The thirteen going on fourteen-year old sighs heavily, adjusting the backpack on his shoulder. His bushy brows furrowed until he smells a familiar sandwich. Steps picking up, the smell gets stronger and now he hears a tell-tale beat. Confused, he tilts his head to better catch the exchange of words behind the door.

Stiles’ heartbeat keeps as steady as it normally is, even when he hears the thump of a body hitting a wall. Crouched down, he places his backpack next to the much stronger smell of tuna directly in front of him, no sandwich or bag in sight. He’ll remember to ask Stiles about that interesting little fact.

“Hey-“ Derek shoves both doors open, but his call is halted when he sees Stiles, held up by the collar, his toes barely touching the floor, and some guy looming over him. His green eyes flash gold, quick as a blink. “Let him go!” He growls and makes a move towards them, uncaring of the others moving towards him.

Suddenly, the boy, who had been practically choking Stiles, jumps back, letting Stiles go.

Feet steady on the ground, the brunette aims a knee solidly at Prep boy’s crotch, making the older teen clutch his damaged jewels, then pass out a second later.

Without so much as a second glance, the group of bullies disperse quickly leaving only Stiles, Derek, the fainted bully, and the bullied victim.

Overhead, a bell rings to end the lunch period.

 

****

 

“I told you to go to class, Derek.” 

“And I told you to shut up, Stiles.”

“Rude! See what happens when you skip out on your education.” An arm flails out.

A glower. “We have the same exact study period after lunch. We’re not missing anything, and unless you want to carry this guy all by yourself, then shut up.”

Stiles and Derek look at each other over the slumped head of the bully they are carrying between them.

Stiles goes silent for a few seconds, and then: “That is the longest thing I have ever heard you say without a single-”

Derek relaxes his hold on the body, making Stiles nearly trip at the sudden shift in weight. His point proven, he uses one hand to hold up the slumped body by the collar, thus pulling Stiles --who had the guy’s right arm over his shoulders-- abruptly upright. The teen wolf smirks at the brunette, to which he receives an annoyed pout; he smiles, toothy.

 A combined chuckle-cough from behind interrupts the two.  

The former bullied victim trails behind them. Standing taller and leanly muscular with brown/black, wavy hair reaching to his nape. Skin lightly-tanned more due to a lack of any consistently current sun-exposure and remaining thanks to his ethnicity. A thin face with a sharp, yet soft jawline. He’s smiling at the two with his attention more on Stiles, the freshman who’d suddenly appeared to his rescue and offered him a hand up like a scene from a romantic comedy. He doesn’t know what to make of him.

“You guys are adorable.” Says the former bully victim, pearly whites on display. His voice is raspy and somewhat deep-- puberty still in effect.

Derek, uncomfortable, ignores the comment. He keeps walking forward.

Stiles, cheeky, looks back and answers: “I know. But as your knight in shining armor, I think dashing suits me better.”

“If you say so, good knight.”

“I do, dear damsel.”

Squinted eyes and pursed lips, between amused and faux-disturbed. “I. Am not. A damsel.” Tone cold with a hint of amusement. 

“You never offered your name, so…” 

The so-called damsel crosses his arms, and walks along with Stiles. “Cyrus. I’m a junior. May I know the name of my champion?” He turns to look at Stiles.

“Stiles, freshman. I’d offer you my hand-”

“I thought you already did?” Cyrus teases. 

Caught off-guard, Stiles stops. “Well-”

“Do you want to keep carrying this guy?” Derek interrupts, annoyed. “The nurse’s station is literally right there.” He nods up at the sign, eyebrows unimpressed and steps quickened. 

“Finally!” Stiles is tired of carrying this guy’s fat --more muscular-- heavy self.

Derek knocks, but no one answers.

Checking the door, it twists open so they have no compunctions about entering. White, cement walls and cream linens folded on standard mattresses. Cabinets, shelves, and cupboards lined with medications, gauzes, and every other bare bones first aid a school nursing station could offer. All but for the nurse, where the main desk has a folded note saying ‘Gone for lunch’. The two boys carrying the body, plop the slumped weight face down, unceremoniously, on one of the empty cots.

Stiles turns back to Cyrus. “I’m not trying to imply anything, but you didn’t really need to follow us back here.”

Derek leans on the wall closest to the door, observing.

Cyrus runs a hand back through his thick hair. “What are you implying, exactly?” Wary, he stands far apart from the two.

Stiles stands right across from the junior. “Just wondering why you didn’t skidaddle the second those horseflies left when it turned out their shit leader was just plastic, garbage.”

The other two, conscious boys laugh at the youngest’s descriptive ability. Derek’s shoulders shake with attempts to smother his laughter. 

Shaking his head, Cyrus answers through breaks of chuckling. “That’s-” more giggling. “Huh-uh. Hmm.” He bites his lip and breathes out. “You’re seriously something, you know that?”

A shrug of shoulders dressed only in a blue and white baseball, quarter-sleeved shirt.

“I figured if any teachers stopped us, I’d explain everything. It’s the least I could do, for my knight.”

Stiles nods to himself, head bobbing left and right. “Okay.” He fixes his eyes on Cyrus’. “You got any plans to report them? The stuff they said doesn’t just stop after one time. Never mind the fact that I know, judging from your reaction, it definitely wasn’t the first time they did something like that before.”

Pitying. “And what makes you think going to the teachers about this will solve anything?”

“Bullying- no, scratch that, harassment isn’t something that should be ignored. They only stuck to taunting this time, but next time, when they start throwing punches-Oh, wait. They did actually throw a punch."

Dark eyes narrow. "Did you see them throw a punch?"

"No, but I heard it."

"Still doesn't mean you saw it."

Annoyed, Stiles runs a hand over his face. "Besides that point, I still know you got punched."

"Fine, I got punched. Singular. And barely. Guy can't even punch very hard." The last part muttered mostly to himself. 

" _Besides that point_ , when-" Stiles' voice rises, showing his ire.

“If.”

“When.” Followed by a deep breath, Stiles takes a quick glance at Derek and sees the wolf smile at him being verbally side-tracked by another, so he makes a face that tries to look like a wolf growling but is actually more akin to a kitten's annoyed nose-wrinkle. He glances back at Cyrus before he can see Derek's snarl full of human teeth. 

Ignoring the rebuttal and not seeing the exchange due to him looking down at a piece of string on the floor, he continues. “If there is a next time. At all. They’ll probably just stick to name-calling.”

“Slurs.” Stiles corrects, arms crossed over his chest.

“Whatever,” Cyrus stands up to his full height. “I really doubt there will be a next time.”

“What makes you so confident preppy here won’t run to his parents to fix his problems? He definitely looks the type.”

Cyrus smirks and makes eye contact. “He is that preppy. But he’d have to own up to the fact that he got beat up by a tiny, twiggy freshman-”

“I am not-”

“And I’d have no problem stepping up as a witness to what he and his friends did. Of course, I’d add the fact that I’m gay and just happened to be targeted because I turned down his preppy ass, so he started bullying me because he got butthurt. Figuratively, speaking.” 

Stiles blinks. An action Derek repeats, followed by him looking back and forth between the two.

“Oh.” Honey, brown eyes blink again. “Well, then. Seems like you’ve got it all figured. You don’t mind coming out?” Genuinely curious.

“I’ve been out of the closet since I was six and told my parents I was gonna grow up to marry Aladdin.” His smile is small, reminiscent, before it turns flat. “I know I’m one of the lucky ones. My parents were the type of Hindus who didn’t really believe in ostracizing somebody based on their sexuality. That and I don’t see much value in the high school, social ladder. It’s not worth climbing, in my opinion.”

Stiles steps closer and holds out a hand to shake. “Nice to meet somebody who shares a similar sentiment. I haven’t told my mom yet, but I’m pretty sure she knows already. I’m bi. Well, bisexual leaning more towards a male preference. Heteroflexible?” He pauses for a moment, then shakes his head. “Nah, more bi.”  

Cyrus reaches his own hand out but is interrupted by a loud, “What!” from Derek.

Pulling back his outstretched hand to better cross his arms, Stiles hones in on Derek with a piercing look. “Do you have a problem with bisexuality or homosexuality, Derek?”

Derek gapes, his rabbit teeth on display, and eyebrows rising to the ceiling. He splutters, “Uh- No! What the- No, I- I am not-- I mean-”

Stiles rises a single brow in judgment. “It’s kindergarten all over again.” He mutters, fond teasing.

The green-eyed teen blushes, embarrassed, “I was caught off guard.” Glaring back and meeting Stiles’ eyes directly. “Not like you ever give me the time of day, anyway.”

Guilty as charged, Stiles can’t give him an answer, much less in the presence of a third party.

Cyrus looks between the two before brushing his hair back from his face. “Hmm, thanks again.” He nods at Derek and smiles back at Stiles. “Maybe I'll see you around, Stiles the Cute.”

“Pretty sure you meant dashing.” Stiles retorts, cheeky grin in place. He gives the other boy a little wave as he walks out.

“We should go get our stuff. If they’re still there.” Derek adds and opens the door for Stiles.

“Beacon Hills High is a lot of things, but a hot bed of robbery it is not. I doubt anybody else is interested in picking up other people’s backpacks.”

“I’m sure it helps having yours be invisible.”

Stiles trips.

Derek catches him by the back of his shirt.

Clearing his throat, Stiles self-consciously rights himself before once again walking. A present silence hovers between them, awkward and comfortable in turns.“If any of your stuff is missing, I'll help you find them. My mom’s a detective, you know.” The brunette picks up his pace, not seeing the fond eye-roll Derek sends him.

“The fact that I have met Miss Claud before should tell you that I _do_ know your mom’s a detective, especially since she's worked with my mom before.” A casual shoulder shrugged.

Stiles’ replies with a noise between a fake scoff and a hearty ‘pshaw’.

Proving his earlier statement’s accuracy, Stiles gestures with a flourish at Derek’s backpack still leaning where he left it. Dubiously, Derek makes sure to openly look through every pocket and zipper to ensure that all his materials haven't been pilfered.

While the other is busy, Stiles simply places a hand where his backpack still rests, making it reappear in a seamless manner.

Green eyes, having never actually lost focus of the other, observe the phenomenon quietly. “So, for how long have you been.” The werewolf teenager waves a too big hand for his still comparatively thinner arms.

“Was that supposed to be a question? Cuz I didn't hear one.” Smoothly, Stiles swings his bag over a shoulder, surreptitious in checking Spokój’s placement on his neck. “We should hurry back to study hall. Pretty sure the librarian doesn't mind docking points for being late. Although, if we mention eating some bad food, which made us kneel before the royal receptacle that is the toilet, she might decide to have mercy. Then again, we didn't report to the nurse’s office officially, but we could always say-”

Derek can’t help but boggle at the barrage of projectile, word vomit spewing in his general direction.

“Seriously?” he interrupts. “So I'm supposed to just pretend I didn't see you do _that_ ,” Derek gestures pointedly to the magically appearing bag, “-right in front of me. Wow, I knew you didn't think much of me, but this!?” His frown deepens before he lengthens his strides to overtake the younger boy.  

“Woah! Hey! Derek!” Stiles sprints the still minimal distance between them and grabs a swinging hand. “Dude, check yourself!” He waves the captured hand with its display of claws. 

The Were yanks his hand back, pointedly displaying his receding claws. “Gee, didn't think you’d care to mention it. Considering.” Green lasered onto the formerly invisible backpack. 

Stiles tilts his head back, displaying his neck as he sighs heavily. “Your Pa- blegh-” His tongue falls out of his mouth, an action to berate his near break of discretion. “Family-” Eyes wide and now, looking down at the floor. “Trusts me to keep my word. At least try to be subtle with your,” he finger quotes, “monthly habits.” His mouth pouts down in a moue, as he glances back up at the other.

Derek moves to turn around, stopping halfway. His head tilted down, nostrils flared, and eyes golden. He turns back, face-to-face with Stiles. “What the hell did I ever do to you, huh, Stiles?” The same previously clawed hand now desperately gripping a thinner and paler wrist. “You and my family- just what the hell is going on!”

The younger boy opens his mouth. 

“No! Okay, listen, I need to say this.” Derek takes hold of the other wrist to pull Stiles closer. He brings his voice down to a furious whisper. “We- My mom. She trusts you. Your whole family. Then there’s you and Uncle Peter, might as well be Siamese twins the way you’re all over each other. I just- I don't get it.”

Stiles’ mouth moves up and down, before settling into a firm line. “What's there to get.” 

The Were’s face crumples like a used napkin. “That! That, right there.” A breathy chuckle, humourless. “Every time I try to even have some kind of conversation with you- You brush me off. If I even try to be friends with you, you treat me like shit-”

“Then stop.” 

Halted mid-tirade, Derek’s mouth hangs open, confused. “What?”

Doe eyes brighten. “Just stop,” he whispers.

“Stop?”

Stiles twists his wrists out of the loosened grip. “Look, I’m sorry that you feel like I'm treating you like shit. It's not--believe me or don’t-- I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“Well, you coulda fooled me.” Hurt clear in his voice.

A frustrated groan. “Derek, please, just.” He presses his hands together like a prayer and bows his head a little, either an apology or some calming mini-meditation. Stiles’ eyes close, his brows folding in the middle with the motion. “Leave it alone, okay? Focus on baseball, basketball, whatever other sport you're involved in-”

Curious. “How did you-”

His hand chops the air between them. “Doesn't matter. Focus on your classes and,” _Paige_ was going to come out of his mouth next, but Stiles caught it. “Just stop asking me so many questions. It's for your own good.” A plea.

The wrinkles on his brow deepen. “Oh, it's for my own good. So, now you’re acting like my parents. Great!” Tone dripping sarcasm. “If you think trying to redirect my attention will work, think again, cuz newsflash Stiles! I’m not of the brats you babysit.” Derek rolls his eyes, heavily. “All I want-I just-” A long huff. “I just want some answers.” A forced calm.

“This has nothing to do with you!”

Green flashes to yellow. His shoulders square. “If my Pa- family is part of it, then I have every right to know what's going on with you and them!”

“Have they told you anything? Peter, your mom, Laura?”

A tic in his jaw gives away his frustration. “No-”

“Then this has nothing to do with you.” Stiles states this clearly and firmly. “I’m going back to class, and you should, too.” He walks away, pace quick and face red.

Derek fumes quietly, his fangs aching from their abrupt descent and scoring his lip. A growl settles in his throat, heavy and waiting to be let out. He feels humiliated, agitated, but most of all resolute. After a few deep breaths, he turns and looks closely at Stiles’ back distancing from him, the genetic predator-prey instinct inside forcibly restrained--curiosity piqued more than ever and a stubbornness so insurmountable not even his Alpha could stop him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting happens with an Alpha and their second, three humans, a tree person, and a soft-spoken vet.
> 
>  
> 
> [young Heath Ledger plays 'Donovan']

* * *

 

“Yeah, dad. I don't need a ride.”

“Are you sure, pup?”

“I’m sure. I just wanna walk.” Jade green glances upwards. “Break is almost done, then we’re back to practicing free-throws.”   

“Alright. If you’re sure, Derek. Feel free to call if you change your mind. And don't forget to take it easy at practice, you and your cousins are doing self-defense drills with your Aunt Lei tomorrow. Love you, son.”

“Yeah. Love you too, dad.” Derek says distractedly, hitting the end call button. He wipes the sweat off his face with a hand towel, a D.H. embroidered in one corner.

“Hale! Enough with the lovey-dovey talk. Drink your Gatorade, and get your ass on the court.”

“Yes, sir.” He would argue about the lovey-dovey part, considering he was talking with his dad… But, looking at the Coach’s manic face makes him feel like the better judgment is to leave it be. The green-eyed teen squeezes his water bottle into his mouth, cheeks puffed like a chipmunks.

“Louder, Hale! Where's your energy!”

A gulp followed by a breath. “Yes, sir, Assistant Coach Finstock!”

“Now, that's better.” Finstock is wearing khaki shorts and navy, blue sports polo. His dark hair slightly wind blown, the orderly cut barely keeping it from looking wild. “You hear me, teenyboppers! If I don't see some hustle on the court, everybody, and I mean everybody-” He turns his eyes at the upperclassmen. “Gets to do full speed inside out dribbles and lunge squats up and down the court for two-sets of fifty-laps around the court. I wanna hear a Hoo-Ah!” Finstock yells.

A mixed round of hoo-has and hoo-ahs are yelled out, bewilderment setting the tone.

One of the other kids wearing baggy shorts steps up to Derek. The fourteen-year old, wolf looks at him and thinks the other boy’s name starts with… a letter. He doesn’t really care. 

“Hey, Derek. Isn't that chant by the Marines or something?” The other kid whispers to him, a hand held up to try sneakily covering his whisper but just making it more obvious. 

Derek shrugs. “Pretty sure it’s the Navy.” He stretches his right arm across his chest, while his left arm pushes it a little farther and vice versa.

Finstock blows the whistle, and moves to walk over to the other Basketball Coach, who’s just walked back in. “Coach, I got’em geared up and ready to practice.”

“Nice job, Bobby. I know I can take it easy when it's your turn at the whistle.” The Basketball Coach pats the other man on the back. The man turns around to face the team before blowing the whistle. “Alright! Everybody better be hydrated and warmed up cuz it’s time to work on free throws. You don't make three— you get back in line until you get them in succession. It ends when everybody’s done all three without a hitch, then we’ve got one more huddle before I let you go. Anybody know what for?”

As the coach was speaking, everyone on the team stood still for his announcement, but after that question, they all look around waiting for somebody else to answer. The coach clears his throat and sees a distracted face, he points: “Hale! Do you know what the last huddle’s for?”

Derek’s eyes widen, the whites of his eyes becoming more prominent. Caught out, he stammers and says: “Uhh… we have a game?” 

“Is that a question or an answer, Derek?” The Coach looks at Derek, expectant.

“We’ve got a game against Idyllwild High,” says a boy with curly, light brown hair; the top of his head an almost dark blonde likely bleached by too much sun. Eyes a shade of dark, warm brown; nose slightly bulbous and skin colored by ultraviolet rays to produce a golden hue. It was the same boy that had called Derek over when the teenage wolf was about to corner Stiles for information about the note he dropped.

The green-eyed wolf narrows his eyes at the other boy’s smug tone, getting the feeling that he was just one-upped.

“Did I miss the memo about your name change, Donovan? Since when did you get your name changed?” Coach retorts, not meanly.

At that response, the boy named Donovan raises up his hands in surrender. The falsely innocent face makes a good number of the team chuckle.

With a shake of his head, the team’s coach blows the whistle to start the drill.

Everybody runs in line. The condensed messes of pungent, teenage boy scent making Derek breathe minimally through his mouth. Whether it was through the ease of practice or the innate enhancement of supernatural ability, his free throws hit the net with hardly a swish of sound, the ball arcing smoothly in the basket. He steps off the line loose-shouldered and graciously receives the awaiting high-fives, a smirk on the corner of his mouth.

Unbeknownst to Derek, the boy, who’d been scolded by the coach for his earlier outburst, stares at the teenage wolf’s back, intense. If physically capable, that look alone would tear a jagged hole through the green-eyed boy’s torso.

Dark, brown eyes move their focus to the basket. Positioning himself, Donovan takes one, two shots. On the third shot, he relaxes his arms and flicks his wrist, but laughter on the sideline catches him off guard. His fingertips push the ball down earlier than they should.  

Inflated leather bounces on the orange, metal ring. He walks back to the end of the line. His lips pursed, annoyed.

The final whistle blows, signaling the end of practice.

They all gather in a circle around the coaches, some avidly listening while others listen with half an ear.

Derek keeps his eyes facing the coach, but he only hears snippets of what is being said. His mind replays the day and keeps circling back.

**_“‘This has nothing to do with you.’”_ **

_The hell it doesn't._

**_“‘It’s for your own good.’”_ **

“Sure.”

“Good to hear it, Hale. But try saying it with less lip, huh?” The coach tells him, and Derek blinks finally noticing all the attention his little aside was able to catch.   

A smirk and a smile: “You got it, Coach.”

He makes sure to pay attention this time. Derek’s chest rises minutely, a short moment of inhale and exhale.

 

  
Later, he washes up quickly in the showers, dresses by the lockers, and picks up one of the basketballs on his way out. His plans to start walking home are waylaid when a group of his teammates circle him and one of them catches him with an arm around his neck.

They walk and talk through the empty halls of the high school. Derek’s smile is wide but strained. Though hardly anybody notices the difference

Voices going over and under about this upcoming movie or the upcoming game to the point that they overpower the sound of notes produced from the friction of hair on string. Until—

It stops.

A door ahead opens.

“Can you guys keep it down? I’m trying to practice.” Snide and scolding are the words to best describe the new voice.

He always feels surprised at how her looks are so reminiscent to Stiles’— pale skin and moles, technically the one visible mole under her eye. Her lips are thinner, no pronounced Cupid’s bow. Stiles’ face leaner, while hers is rounder, and both with dark brown hair—hers wavy, while his has the potential to be. But, if he considers her stillness, that quirk would not remotely pertain to Stiles’, unless the boy had a book or two within reach. Derek imagines if the other boy had slightly longer hair, there would be wispy commas defying gravity, especially where the younger’s bangs sit on his forehead.

Somebody thumps him hard enough to bring him back to the moment, but his body doesn't so much as jostle one-centimeter. He really needs to keep a closer watch on his strength.

“Well?” Paige crosses her arms, expectant.

“Sorry about that, Derek here just gets those dumbstruck moments, you know?” One of the guys teases.

Derek looks back to see the one who thumped him. He thinks the coach called the guy Donovan or something. Distancing himself from the group, he palms his basketball single handedly. Green stares back at dark brown. “We’re just passing by. Didn't mean to bother anybody.” Cue his patented smile. It's as close to an apology he can give, since he wasn't actually the one making noise.

“Hmph. Then keep on passing.” She goes back in the room, door slamming behind her.

The other guys look at each other before they look back at Derek, faces expressing something he refuses to acknowledge. He doesn’t say anything at their looks, so they keep walking.

By the time they reach the main doors, Derek is desperate to get away and get some time to himself, so he makes up something about forgetting that he was supposed to talk to one of his teacher’s about a project. He takes the ribbing good-naturedly and walks back in the school. He’ll just take one of the fire exit doors to get to the outside. A good thing the alarms don’t ring with how often some teachers and the principal take smoke breaks— his nose wrinkling whenever one of them is near.

As Derek keeps walking, he hears the music better this time and stops by the door, wherein the striking of string on string sings with nuance. Closing his eyes, he can hear his heart and the other heartbeat keeping a rhythmic tempo behind the melody of taut string being dragged and struck, hypnotizing and emptying. It mires him so deeply that the muscle memory of the ball fitting in his hand is forgotten.

Inflated leather drops hard on the floor. The resounding impact followed by a diminishing repeat ending in caesura once more.

The door next to him opens.

“I thought I-” she pauses. Paige glances around him, as if to emphasize how alone he is. Standing taller, she takes a breath, face stubborn and mouth ready to lecture.

“Your music sounds nice.” He says and sees her eyes narrow, whether in confusion or suspicion he couldn't say. Derek moves to pick up the ball not interested in having another argument after the one he’d had with Stiles, but he’s intercepted when Paige sweeps it up.

“Thank you.” She hands the basketball back. “I practice to make sure the music I make is more than nice. And I need to hear myself play, so-”

“Yeah, I get it. I can't speak for the guys, but I don't usually make a lot of noise.” Suddenly remembering his manners: “Forgot to introduce myself, I’m-”

“I know who you are.” She says it too quickly to have been anything but an instinctive reaction, as nerves react to stimuli. Her heartbeat increases steadily and so does her embarrassment before he can tell when she decides to hide it behind a heavy eye roll.

“Okay, and you are?” He knows her name is Paige but that's as far as he knows of her name. Meanwhile, he knows for fact –based on her reaction— that she knows his first and last name. If it’s cheating to use his powers, then consider him the epitome of life, fairness being a forcibly applied human construct in the name of just practice.

She flushes red at her cheeks, a mix of annoyed and nervous. “Paige Krasikeva.”

A last name that has a similar ring to Stiles’, an impact made by s and k. “Nice to meet you, I guess.” He adds the last part under his breath.

“You, too.” She moves most of the hair that fell in front of her face to curl behind one ear.

“I’m go-”

“If you can keep quiet, I don't mind you listening.” Paige opens the door to the room a little wider. It’s an offer.

“Um, thanks. But I’ve gotta get home. My parents.” He shrugs and sends her an embarrassed smile. Even if he did stay to listen, Stiles and whatever’s going on between the boy and his family would be in the back burner, always. He’s never been much for multi-tasking unless absolutely necessary.

The frown that had begun to grow on her face clears up at Derek’s piecemeal explanation. “Okay, maybe next time?” She asks in a dismissive tone, but her body remains angled to him.

He nods and walks away, the smell of her attraction lingering behind. His cheeks feel warm.

Once he’s outside, Derek takes a deep breath of fresh air. He walks into the woods, on his way home.

What Stiles said earlier has stuck to his mind like a bad smell from a stinkbug. A heavy frown starts to appear on his previously thoughtful face.

Maybe, he is being too nosy. And so what if Stiles doesn't want to talk to him about whatever is going on…

He entertains the thought of dropping it, but he knows better. Something about the situation picks at him, a bad itch that gets relieved when he can finally scratch it numb. The thing about Stiles is, they never really got to a point in their friendship where either of them would even divulge about their deeper problems.

Derek had only found out about Stiles’ dad’s passing on the local news and the funeral from the local newspaper. He’d only known it was Stiles’ dad from the last name spelled out in the paper. There had been hurt sitting in his chest when he found out. The fact that it cemented how shallow the friendship between them turned out to be was a sour taste, but it did not turn him away.

Maybe, it was stupid to keep trying. Maybe, it wasn’t the smartest thing to keep pushing, since he knew the other would only push back and run.

Still.

He’s never been known to give up and give in. The last thing Laura had said to him was to watch himself. Something about being: “More wolf than sense,” which he’d brushed off as Laura trying another hand at being quote-worthy.

Still.

She’s going to be the next Alpha for a reason. Plus… he likes the ring of it.

As he walks through the woods, Derek doesn’t even try to watch his step. After all, he’s more wolf than sense, so his sister always tells him.

 

 

“Cora! Would you stop with that racket!”

He hears a raspberry being blown after DJ’s shout, probably Cora.

“ _Would ya stop it with that rocket_ ~,” nine-year old Cora mimics. “How ‘bout you stop trying to act like a grown-up. Cuz you aren't!”

“It's ‘racket’ not ‘rocket’. No wonder you need special help in school.”

The two devolve into indeterminable yelling, which of course makes their baby cousin, Jamie, start screaming thanks to her developing hearing. Her little face scrunches up in displeasure and turns red as her cries ring and echo to wolves’ ears.

He wonders if his headache will show itself into those weird pound marks you see on phones, like the ones cartoon characters have when they get mad. Derek willfully keeps his eyes on his food, because he knows better from experience that getting between those two won't get him anything more than scratches. Sure, they heal faster than normal humans, but DJ’s claw marks linger since he’s still a developing Alpha. Puberty just makes the entire experience more wonderful… really.

The table has a decent spread of meat, from steaks to rotisserie; even Nana A’s signature mac and cheese with thick bacon slices is out, front and center. Laura’s still in New York for school, apparently no way for her to get away. Uncle Peter is visiting but only till Sunday afternoon, so it’s a step up from the usual weekend, family dinners.

Shoveling food in his mouth, Derek makes sure to level his head a certain way so that the actual focus of his attention isn't privy to said focus-- what with it being a certain brunette boy who just happens to be sitting two seats diagonally from him. Mrs. Stilinski (“Please, call me, Claud”) sitting one seat across from him, while the shy blonde kid (“Isaac”) is not around.

It’s not an ideal angle, but definitely doable.

From here he can see Stiles keeping up fairly well with the other wolves’ appetites, it makes him smile and crinkle his brows, simultaneously. The stuff the other boy had told him last time ring in his ears, but the words don’t push him away. Maybe it’s stupid of him to feel this stubborn about it. But he’s always listened to his instincts. Even if he does wear human skin, this doesn’t make the man and the wolf separate. More like a symbiotic coexistence. Besides, his attention is also on his mom and Uncle Peter.

He’s not stupid.

The note Stiles had dropped earlier in the week, and Uncle Peter just happening to come back in the same weekend. Miss Claud putting more effort in having a conversation with his mom, and no sight of that kid who’d clung to Stiles the first time both their families came together for a weekend dinner to announce the family as allies to the Pack. The blond clearly being the youngest, and they probably don’t want to involve the kid. A situation is happening and he refuses to stay ignorant about it.

He keeps his eyes on his food, but his attention is anywhere but.

After dinner, his mom leaves with Uncle Peter followed by Stiles and Miss Claud. The four of them exit through the back in the direction of the preserve. His dad calls him over to help clean the plates and put them into the dishwasher. He doesn’t offer any complaints and waits. Leaving Cora and DJ alone, usually ends with-

A shrill scream turning into a throaty growl, doubled, and then followed by another piercing wail.

His dad sighs heavily, because Uncle Al and Aunt Sim are at another town over, probably a date. Aunt Frey and Aunt Lei plan to have kids, so they have no problem jumping in to help, but they really aren’t very good at dealing with the younger ones much. As for Nana A… she just goes for the baby-- “It’s good for the kids to fight it out. They’ll heal.” Hearing that when he and Laura had a fight about something, he looked back at his older sister, the future Alpha, and backed down. Because at the end of the day, he wasn’t really the type to fight with the aim to make the other bleed.

Out of all three of his siblings, he was the most attuned to his wolf and the most docile. Sometimes, he’d overhear his mom calling him balanced.

He liked balanced.

Derek finishes putting the plates away, with enough time to catch up. “I’ll be in my room doing homework, so no interruptions please.” Derek says in passing as he heads up the stairs, not even waiting to hear his dad’s response. If it was his mom, she’d stop him to ask what he was rushing for. His dad, bless his soft heart, just sends him a smile and a huff before checking to make sure DJ and Cora don’t start breaking furniture in their ensuing fight.

Another thing he’s thankful for is the transfer to a soundproof room, something his mom started since Laura turned into a teenager. He closes his door the same way he always does and plays some rock music through his speakers.

Derek checks the windows to see if any human shapes are visible. Since there are none, he quietly opens his window and jumps to the closest tree.

He keeps this up until he scents the group he’d been keeping his nose up for. Positioning himself in the trees gives him the upwind advantage, but the distance only lets him see them. Any closer, and he could hear what they were saying, but so could his mom hear his heartbeat. Derek crouches down and waits.

A few more minutes pass with Stiles and Peter conversing leisurely, an action mirrored between his mom and Miss Claud. Suddenly, he sees a grey shape flying by to land on a woman maybe only a few years younger than his Nana A. The older woman then moves to hand some kind of red blanket-thing to Stiles. He blinks and rubs his eyes because he’s sure he would’ve seen the person walk in, but when he opens them again, he can see the familiar shape of the vet, Dr. Deaton, materialize from the shadows, which…

_‘What’s the local vet doing here?’_

Another shape moves in the trees but Derek doesn’t even bother blinking in surprise. Instead, his eyes grow huge at the tree that had stood up and was moving its branches the same way a person gestures as they talk.

_‘What the-’_

When the tree kneels to talk to the gray-haired woman, he leans forward in the hopes of being better able to read their lips.

He sees his mom say some kind of greeting to the old woman and the talking tree; a handshake and a nod, respectively. Uncle Peter follows after and mirrors his mom’s actions. Miss Claud goes a step further to shake hands with the moving and talking tree. On the other hand, Stiles goes the extra mile to hug the newcomers.

_‘If Stiles is friends with some obviously magical beings, then it’s not just werewolves he knows about. Not to mention the disappearing-reappearing backpack.’_

Jade green squints at—

‘ _Is there a snake on Stiles’ shoulder? Around his neck?’_

Derek is really tempted to scoff at the fact that the most secretive person he knows outside of his family is somehow really well acquainted with blatantly magical beings, except for the old woman, maybe.

Along with his mental list about Stiles, he adds something into his own personal skills list that he should really practice more on. Something about mouthing what he may be reading from their lips, silently, to himself, either makes him feel kind of stupid or crazy. Both.

_‘Ugh. This is going to be a long night.’_

He manfully stifles a groan and slumps back quietly on the tree trunk.

 

**** (credit to **tabooed** for helping me with this section)

 

“So~ how’s Law School, Aurie?”

“Competitive. Lots of drinking. Ludicrous amounts of documents and cases. Being put on the spot by professors. Tears shed.”

“You cried?” Disbelieving.

Scoff. “Of course not. I watched people cry.”

Silence. “So, it’s perfect for you?”

A wink. “Absolutely, Tasha. And again, since you seem to be hard of hearing it’s Aur-”

“Aurelius.” Stiles rolls his eyes playfully and sticks his tongue out at Peter’s hyperbolic affront. “Too many syllables. And where’d Tasha come from?”

“Speaking of too many syllables, _An-as-ta-sia._ Hence, the Tasha. _”_

“At least mine doesn't sound as pompous as _Au-re-li-us_.”

“If you have a problem with it, take it up with my mother.”

“Ditto.”

And the conversation goes on between Stiles and Peter with a steady amount of snark.

 

Meanwhile, between Claudia and Talia:

“Claudia, I’m glad you could join us tonight." 

A contemplative hum and a pasted on smile. “Considering how it involves my son, I wouldn't miss a second.”

“Of course. How is work?”

“Fine. Yours?” Hands in her jean pockets.  

Smile brightening, tensely. “Nothing as remarkable as this, I can assure you.”

“That’s nice.” Eyes off into the distance.

Eyes looking back from Claudia to the woods. “You-”

Suddenly, a grey, medium-sized bird flies low near the group of four interrupting the conversations. It lands on Mandalei’s shoulder, as if appearing from the shadows.

“Good evening, all.” The wizened, old Spark smiles at each in turn before doling out hugs to Stiles and Claudia, while handshakes and further polite pleasantries are given to the two werewolves. Lastly, she pulls out a basket carrying a familiar red cloak, which Stiles dons readily, hood over his head and mask in place.

Just as the group finishes, one of the trees by their side straightens up to stand from what seemed to be a seated position. The two wolves make sure not to react with surprise, claws given only a moment to grow before receding to its blunter, more human form.

“Alpha Hale. Second. Well met.” The Leshiye greets formally with a tilt of his head and a tucked arm, the sound of branches creaking in the wake of his every motion. “You may call me Treebeard, as young Ogień has dubbed me.”

“Well met, Treebeard.” Talia dips her head lower than a nod of acknowledgement. Peter follows after her.

“Now that we’re all here.” Deaton suddenly appears from the shadows, but only Stiles and Claudia visibly flinch from surprise.

“Son of a-” Claudia exclaims before she cuts herself off. She shakes her head and takes a closer step to Stiles, along with Mandalei and the Leshiye.

Stiles sends a glare to Peter, Mandalei, and Treebeard, of which all three are attempting to hide their own expressions of mirth.

 _“You couldn’t have warned me?”_ The youngest in the group sends the thought to Spokój, who is slithering around his neck, sheepishly.

_“I thought you noticed.”_

_“Of course, I didn’t notice! Of the two of us, who has supernatural senses?”_

_“Me, but you have your magic.”_

_“Which I still need a lot of help in really using. Or getting the hang of using. Like a honed instinct.”_

_“How do you practice instinct when it's supposed to be innate.”_ Spokój reposts.

Caught off guard, Stile gapes behind the scarf covering the lower half of his face and stares, betrayed, at laughing vulpine eyes.

“Stiles.” A whisper.

Spokój rolls his eyes, to which Stiles responds with turning his head away from the kudagitsune. Said kudagitsune, colored in a coppery red, slithers up to kiss and nuzzle Stiles’ cheek. _“I’m sorry, okay? I’ll make sure to tell you next time.”_ Still getting the cold shoulder, Spokój resorts to stretching across Stiles upper lip. _“I’m a mustache. You can’t hate me, now.”_

“Stiles?”

The young Spark snorts at the ridiculousness of his familiar and simply plucks the pipefox off his face. His own fingers curl around the slim, furry body, which allows the creature to fold itself along his hands and wrists--becoming a ring and bracelet.

_“Remember what I told you about that guy, Spok? I don’t trust him.”_

The kudagitsune’s eyes zero in on the innocuous looking veterinarian. _“Alright. I won’t let my guard down and I’ll do my best to make sure you’re not caught off-guard.”_

“Stiles.” A hand lands on the boy’s shoulder. He looks up to his mom’s laughing eyes and notices everybody else’s attention is now on him.

Clearing his throat, Stiles says: “Uh- hi?”

“Yes, hello, Mr. Stilinski.” Deaton greets. “Now-”

“Call me Ogień for these meetings.” The teenaged boy pulls his mask halfway down and grins, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Mind answering what gave me away?”

“Your energy is very unique. And still needs some work. Experienced magic users could sense you easily at this distance.” Deaton smiles pleasantly. “It certainly helps that I’ve met you before. The flinching was another identifier.” 

“Hmm.” Amber brown shine into a dichotomous lavender-citrus in just a split second. “Good to know, doc.”

“Yes… Interesting.” Deaton pauses, sending a look at the boy before dismissing him to turn to Talia. 

Mandalei, aware of the Emissary’s gaze, subconsciously shifts her stance closer to her student.

“I thought we were here for an important meeting,” Deaton continued, “What’s the purpose of bringing this boy and his pet snake-”

“If you’ve got a problem with _this boy_ , he’s right here.” Stiles juts his chin and Spokój’s eyes shine, expressing his own ire.

Deaton, interest piqued, affixed his stare back to the young Spark, studying him.

Claudia, genuinely confused at the sudden spike in tempers, moves to side with her son.

Peter, on the other hand, who sensed the escalating tension, goes to quell Stiles’ annoyance, but is beaten by Mandalei.

As the elder Spark began to step forward with Neru on her shoulder, the Alpha intercedes.

“Enough,” Talia commanded.

The Druid, as if nothing of note had occurred, bypasses Mandalei and steps closer to Talia, formally offering his neck in greeting. “Alpha Hale.”

Talia lightly touches the neck and turns back to the others. Her eyes glow scarlet.

Everyone tenses, and they all form a loose circle instead of the previously obvious divide.  

“Are we all aware of why we have gathered here?”

Stiles raises a hand. “We have gathered here today… not for marriage.”

Claudia gives her son a look and tugs on his hood, a slight reprimand. His responding shrug is met with a huff and a small uptick at the corner of her mouth. “Witches. A coven of them.” She supplies in order to move the meeting forward.

Mandalei shakes her head fondly at her student.

Treebeard tilts his head with a smile, either confused or surprised.

Peter rolls his eyes. “No marriage. How unfortunate. But yes.”

“How did you come by this information, Claudia?” Deaton asks.

A thought passes in her mind to correct him and refer to her as ‘Mrs. Stilinski’, but it might be better to play the harmless game with this unknown, especially considering her own son’s reaction. “Actually, Stiles and Treebeard were the ones who found out about the witches first hand. I just figured I’d get the ball rolling.” Her smile is placid and shallow.

For a hot second, Stiles leans on his mom’s arm, before he turns to take the Leshiye’s hand. “Treebeard, would you like to tell the story or shall I?” He sends an impish grin at the tree-creature. A branch-hand covered in leaves lands softly on his hair, there and gone.

“Feel free to paint the tale as you wish, Young Ogień.”

“You got it. So-” His hands gesture as he talks. “Thirteen witches. Sacrificing or ritual-ing.” A rocking hand motion. “Sound vacuum. Under a new moon. Near Beacon Hills but not really at the border. Treebeard picked me up and we left unnoticed.” Stiles claps his hands and separates them, palms out, nothing up his sleeve. “Done.”

Deaton, confused, says: “Is that all?” 

“Yup.” Turning to the Leshiye, “Did I miss anything, Treebeard?”

“While very informative, you did forget to add how we came upon the coven. And how the forest turned silent, when the dark moon reached its zenith. A disconcerting state for a land and time meant to be teeming with life. Also, a gathering of immense energy was sensed not only by myself but by Ogień’s companion.” The giant, tree person turns to Mandalei. “I do not know how else to interpret such events without some worry for what ill omen the end result may hold.”

“In any case, this coven situation must be resolved before the Western Pack Gathering.” Talia states firmly.

Deaton hums, questioning. “Even so, the Pack Gatherings are usually too concentrated on the movements of hunters, rather than covens. Should the gathering happen and the case of the coven still be unsolved, more guidance will be needed. I doubt the Werewolf Elders will be of any real help. As it is a matter of sacrifice or ritual, the Druidic Council must be brought to attention.” His own attention has been mostly on Talia, while mostly scattered to Claudia--the token human of the group. “Talia, you know better than I how easily an Emissary’s experienced word can be made static by the ears of a wolf.”

The addressed Alpha shares a commiserating look. “I know what you mean Deaton. But if this incident somehow escalates to the point of turning my territory vulnerable, I can’t risk my Pack or this town getting overrun by Omegas sniffing out a weak Alpha. The Hales have been protecting this land and it's Nemeton for generations, and to ensure that I am teaching what I preach to my daughter, lassitude and procrastination cannot take place.” She raises a hand to placate the other’s incoming argument. “That is not to say that I am dismissing the druids. Have you ever known me not to hear out your words as the Hale Emmissary?”

“Of course not, Alpha Hale.” Pearly whites on display. “Am I free to contact the Druid Council, then?”

“Yes, by all means. It would be a boon to have the Emissaries give their own input, and you never know, I hear the new Alpha in San Francisco- your friends Peter, the mated Alpha-Emissary pair. What were their names?” She asks him, either willfully ignoring his tense stature or completely unaware of it.

Biting his tongue. “Kali and Jennifer.”

“Right.” Turning back to Deaton, she says: “You have my permission to contact the Druidic Council. Any provision of help they can give we’ll take, as long as it's under your purview.”

Deaton tilts his head, acquiescent.

Finally turning to acknowledge the others in the discussion, Talia asks: “Any objections?”

Ill at ease since the talk started, Peter starts to say something but is silenced with one look from his Alpha. As his older sister’s Second in Command, he turns his eyes down to the ground, both in respect and also in hiding his own less than agreeable reaction.

Mandalei continues to look on, discomfited but not showing it. Outright objections sit right under tongue, but she mitigates her phrasing instead: “I understand the need for the Hale Emissary’s worries. But.” The elder Spark makes sure to meet Alpha Hale’s still red eyes. “I suggest we all continue to keep everyone informed of the goings on. I’d feel more reassured, is all.” She dons the mien only a grandmother could wear: harmless, thoughtful, and the better to hide.

A throat clears. “Actually-” Claudia adds, “would you mind explaining a few things about the- the Gathering and the— What was it?” She turns to Stiles, who can only respond with his own confusion. “The uh- Druidic? Did I say that-” Given an affirmative nod, she continues: “Just what or who exactly are these gatherings and councils and why are they so important? Is it like a supernatural government system or?” Her hands gesture in a sort of churning motion, not too dissimilar from Stiles’ own.

Talia’s eyes turn back to her dark brown, the edges of her eyes dressed with a smile. “Of course, Claudia. To start with the Western Pack Gathering is as the name implies Another name for it is the Council of Lelou in recognition of the Northwestern American tribes as the original Packs, who had this territory before the colonizers. It is an annual meeting that occurs around the Harvest Moon, while the other pack gatherings decide on their own schedules. Alphas, their Seconds, and their Emissaries come together to discuss any issues that might crop up that are a direct threat to Werewolf kind. Mainly about omegas and hunters.”

“Omegas being the wolves without a pack, so more likely to go feral. Hunters being the supernatural police.” Claudia clarifies, causing Talia to relax further at her business-like approach.

“Exactly. But with hunters, some can be more reasonable with their work or bigoted. If possible, Packs prefer to monitor their own. I’m fortunate enough to have had little issue in my own territory.”

“Except for the coven.” Stiles adds, his mouth moving faster than his brain could filter. He makes sure to keep his posture open and his eyes facing the ground.

“I set myself up for that.” Talia makes sure to smile when Stiles brings his head up, cheeks pink.

Claudia rests a hand on her son’s shoulder. Turning back to Talia, “So the Gathering is every Pack in the country?” 

“That would be an interesting undertaking, but most Alphas are unwilling to stray too far from their Pack. But that's not a definitive characteristic for all of them. The Gathering I will be hosting is only for the Packs in the West Coast, including Mexico and a Canadian Pack from British Columbia. If you’d like to get into the specifics, we can set aside a time?”

Pausing to think about it, Claudia shrugs. “Sure.”

“Then it’s a date.” Talia smiles, then looks over to Deaton. “Alan, would you like to expound on the Druidic Council for Claudia?” Though it's stated as a question, there's no room for rejection in the tone.

Claudia turns her dark whisky eyes at the Druid in question.

“Yes. The Druidic Council is a group of Elders, most if not all are former Emissaries of previous Pack generations. For every established Pack an Emissary resides in a territory. This was started around a time when most wolves were more feral than not and hunters would raid every village and house killing at just a whisper of hearsay. Emissaries were trained and designated by the early Druids in order to bring balance between Werewolves and humans. An Emissary’s loyalty is first to the Alpha and the Pack’s well being. The second being to the Druid’s Order.”

“So, question.” Stiles raises his hand. “Is it only a Druid that can be a Pack’s Emissary?”

“Originally, yes. However, other Packs have been able to gain a mage or warlock or even a Spark, such as yourself or Miss Jelen, as an established Emissary. As long as the Alpha accepts him/her in that role, then the Druidic Council can only interfere if the magical balance is in danger.” The Druid points an enigmatic smile at Claudia. “Is that explanation sufficient, Claudia?”

“Very informative and helpful. Thanks, Talia. Dr. Deaton.” Claudia steps back to stand level with her son and Mandalei.

“Now that that's settled, no offense Miss Claud, what is the _actual_ plan?” Peter voices, slightly irked at having his possible council largely ignored. “I still have school and it's not like I can be as present to do perimeter checks of the whole territory.”   

Talia aims red eyes at Peter’s tone, but she’s largely unsurprised at her younger brother’s reaction. “Thank you for your input, Peter.” Her tone implying that he need not add anymore input to the conversation. “I was thinking of setting up a rotation for adult members of the Pack to do perimeter checks more frequently. And Mandalei, if you and young Ogień don't mind, maybe doing some research as to what these witches are after. A request I was actually going to suggest to you, as well, Peter.” Every bit the older sister telling off the younger sibling’s impatience. 

“As a guardian of the forest, I shall continue to watch the land for further signs of unrest.” Treebeard adds. Having said his peace, he nods at Mandalei and Claudia before resting a gentle hand on Stiles’ hooded head. He walks back, disappearing into the tree line, camouflaged.

Claudia steps up to Talia, “And I’m guessing you want me to keep an ear on the ground for the police work? Keep track of any new people in town?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Claudia.”

Claudia smirks, a thought she chooses not to voice. Her hands are shoved in her pockets and she walks back to Stiles’ side, casual and protective in turns.

A familiar but not familiar pair of red eyes turn to Stiles. “With your mom’s permission, I offer you access to the Hale library. Though, I must caution you that other than myself, my husband, Peter, and my mother, I am only allowing you and Mandalei to have access to the books, so it would be best to take your notes separately and keep them from being read by anyone not permitted by me.”

Stiles nods and pulls the scarf up to cover his mouth. He mimics his mother’s pose without conscious thought.  

Talia’s red eyes visibly recede back to dark brown.

 

****

 

With the meeting adjourned, the group separates into family units, except for Mandalei who continues to walk with the Stilinskis. No one notices the shadow of golden eyes that disappeared ahead of them.

Both Claudia and Mandalei share a glance that Stiles, too focused on his thoughts, takes no notice of.

Looking back and brushing his little quips aside, Stiles does realize the enormity of the situation. He knows he came across as childish but he’s not even remotely willing to open himself up or be himself completely, especially to Talia and Deaton. The bottom half of his face is covered, and Spokój loosely rests his vulpine head by his boy’s gradually quickening carotid pulse.

“Sczczepan.” Mandalei calls and upon receiving no response, Neru glides down to rest on the boy’s hood covered head. The Grey Shrike releases a ringing chirp, musical but audibly alarming in proximity.

Startled, the red hooded boy trips on his own foot, a likely result after a sudden paused step.

“Stiles!” Claudia exclaims and goes to help him up. She fits her hands under his shoulders, but Stiles doesn’t even bother to help and continues to act as dead weight.

A groan sounds where Stiles’ face kissed the ground with the aid of gravity’s push. “Mmrphmuhfm.”

“Stiles. Kotyenok.” Claudia muffles a laugh. “If you want to be understood, you have to actually get up.” She crouches by his head and rubs her son’s covered hair as if there were no barrier between gun-calloused fingers and brown locks not dissimilar from her own.

“Nruhdnt.”

“Yes, you do.” Claudia meets Mandalei’s eyes, the elder Spark’s expression relaying her confusion. “What? He said ‘No, I don’t’ which is a lie.” Turning back to her son, who seems to be peeking an eye out from under his hood. “And in no way did I raise a liar. Well, a liar to his family.”

Amber eyes look away. He straightens up and pats any dirt that had the chance to stick on his clothes. “How-” Stiles looks to his mom in a myriad of emotions from questioning to awe to disbelief. “How a- You seem really put together about all-” His arm gestures wide and the other follows suit pointing to the opposite direction. Both his hands come up to blanket his vision. Stiles sits on the ground, knees drawn up, and palms digging into his eyes. A shuddering breath comes out.

Immediately, Claudia envelops her son’s shaking form. Sometimes, she forgets how well Stiles can put on an act. She anticipates that this moment is just another reminder among many.

Mandalei folds her legs on Stiles’ other side. Her hand rests on her pupil’s shoulder, a steady presence.

The two women look across each other, one understanding and the other lost.  

Spokój transforms before everyone’s eyes into a small, red fox. The familiar buries his nose in his boy’s neck and this seems to bolster Stiles.

The red-hooded boy takes a deep breath, bracing. Eyes closed, he turns his face up to the canopy above their heads and takes one final deep breath, in and out. Blinking his eyes open, he gently hugs his mother back, one armed, while the other hand grips Mandalei’s, the one on his shoulder. Each action taking only a few seconds before he stands up, a hand offered out to each woman and Spokój’s form-- now a small fox-- on his shoulder.

“Sorry about that.” Stiles lips purse and stick out for a second. Eyes refusing to meet. “Isaac’s waiting at Scott’s and it’s getting late.”

Looking to Mandalei for some kind of cue, Claudia receives a subtle shake of the head. The two women stand and continue on as if nothing happened.

Stiles is grateful for the matter to be dropped at the moment. This gives him time to think up some kind of sensible explanation.

Mandalei walks with the family back to the jeep waiting at the front of the Hale house. No one makes a move for the door, and nearly all the lights are off on the first floor leaving only the bedroom windows illuminated.

A weighted silence stays between the three as they enter the car.

At the McCalls’ house, Claudia is the only one to leave the car and walk to the door.

“Stiles.” Mandalei calls from the passenger seat.

“Hm.” Stiles continues to stare off into the street.

“Would talking in my office for an hour help?”

“You already know the answer to that, Doctor M.”

“How about a casual conversation in the midst of a lesson?”

“I’d be more focused on the lesson than the conversation.”

Mandalei has known Stiles since he was four-years old, so she knows his character both the good and bad. What she is seeing from him now is the primary reason their therapy needed to be cancelled. While she may be aging well into retirement, she knows when a wall has been built. It does not matter what materials were used to build a mental fortress. To keep away from the outside world or to trap inside the contents of the mind, these efforts only take a person’s willpower to establish. Every time Stiles had seen to sealing his thoughts in the confines of his psyche, it was an act done with no other option than to shut down and redirect.

“Well, you’re not wrong about that.” Mandalei sighs, conceding. As she turns to look out into the same street holding Stiles’ attention captive, she feels the back of her seat jostle.

His forehead on the back of the headrest, Stiles stares into the chair. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Stiles.” Following that statement, Neru flies in through the opened passenger-side window. The avian familiar perches on Stiles’ empty shoulder, grooming the boy’s messy hair. Spokoj greets the other familiar with a yip and a swish of his tail.

“Hm.”

“Are you looking forward to your next lesson?” 

“Defensive spells.”

“And a few offensive ones.” Mandalei adds, surprising Stiles because it wasn’t part of the lesson plan originally.

Before Stiles can say more, the two notice Claudia and Isaac coming closer.

“Your family cares a great deal about you Stiles, as do I.”

Stiles hums in answer. He knows, so he sends a gentle smile to his mother and his brother, not too wide or too small.

Isaac smiles back and runs to open the door. The nine-year old boy jumps into the back seat to hug Stiles.

Neru hops to land on Mandalei’s hand before the boys collide. She chirps at them, making Mandalei smile.

Claudia laughs at her boys, before she turns to Mandalei. “Mandalei, I don’t believe you’ve had the chance to meet Isaac, yet.” Getting comfortable in the driver’s seat, she reaches back to ruffle said boy’s blonde curls.

Recalling his shyness among adults, Isaac hides half his face behind Stiles’ arm and clutches his brother’s cloak in curled fists. “Hello.”

“Hello, Isaac. I’ve heard a lot of wonderful things about you.” She sends him her grandmotherly smile.

Isaac, only mildly appeased, moves so his face is no longer obscured, but keeps his grip on Stiles. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” The boy responds quietly.

“Mandalei, do you want to be dropped off first?” Claudia asks the older woman.

“That’s alright. I can find my way home from yours.”

“Nope, I’m the driver and I insist on dropping you off home. Safe and sound.”

A tinkling laugh. “As you say, Detective Stilinski.”

“Good.”

Leaving the two women to their conversation, Isaac turns to Stiles and leans up close to the older boy’s ear to whisper: “Stiles, who’s she?”

“You know those moments when it’s obvious I’m not okay?” Stiles whispers back, as Mandalei and Claudia talk while the car starts up.

Isaac fiddles with one of his sleeves, reluctance encompassing his entirety. A gentle nudge has him looking up at Stiles to be met with a kind smile.

“It is what it is, little dude.” The thirteen-year old moves his arm to go over Isaac’s shoulders. “She helped me through some stuff. I’d talk to her for an hour about anything and everything, and I’d feel better afterwards. Though I don’t do it anymore. What’d be the point.” Stiles goes quiet, but before he can get too lost in his head, Spokój nips his boy’s ear lightly. A blink and a sheepish smile. “Yeah, so instead of that she just helps me with my magic, now.” At that statement, Spokój walks over Stiles’ head to greet the younger boy with a lick on his cheek.

Blue eyes stare up at Stiles, concern and wonder coming through the windows of his soul. Isaac curls up under his big brother’s arm.

After Mandalei is dropped off and they arrive home, all but one of them walks in with a yawn and a stretch. The youngest, of course, having the most energy.

“Umm.”

At the hesitant call to their attention, both Claudia and Stiles pause to look at Isaac. Nervous, the young boy clears his throat. “Um… I was,” his voice disappearing, he clears his throat. “I was wondering if I could go to this field trip.” His hands wring the bottom of his shirt. “If not, that’s-”

“How about you let me see the papers?” Claudia asks gently. “Anyway, if Scott and the others are going, I wouldn’t have a problem with you going.”

Isaac beams a thousand-watt grin. “Okay. Let me get the papers.” The little boy opens up his backpack and quickly finds his papers.

Stiles takes a glance at his mom and sees how tired she is. “I’ll go make you some coffee.”

“Thanks.” She gestures for them to sit in the living room. They get comfortable, Isaac leaning into her side. “Hmm. Oh, it’s a camping trip to Yosemite. All expenses paid, except for camping gear and a recommendation for you to have an allowance. Seems reasonable to me.” Just as Claudia is about to sign on the dotted line, Stiles plops down a mug of coffee thickly dressed with cream.

“Hold on a second.” Stiles says and observes the little boy’s mien dropping. “Little bro, I get that this sounds like a fun time, but I’m just looking out for you, okay?”

“Yeah.” Already anticipating rejection, Isaac’s face falls.

Stiles moves to sit on Isaac’s other side, completing the Stilinski sandwich with a Lahey filling. “First question, for how long is this trip for? Cuz I know for a fact that Yosemite isn’t just an hour away.”

Claudia hands him the paper to read through, understanding her son’s worries but also hoping he wouldn’t fight Isaac if the boy truly wishes to go, after all a school field trip isn’t much to worry about considering what they have to deal with now.

“Okay, so ten days.” Stiles’ eyebrows raise up in surprise before they fall back into neutrality. “It doesn’t mention which of the teachers is going. Do you know?”

“Umm, I think they said that it might be the gym teacher along with the homeroom teacher for each class.” Isaac goes back to fidgeting.

Stiles slips his hand to fit over Isaac’s and leans his weight on the boy. “Okay, how about chaperones?”

“They just gave us the papers today, so they said if anybody’s family is interested to volunteer.” The younger boy clutches the bigger hand surrounding his.

Stiles sighs.

Isaac holds his breath.

“I’ll help you pick out your camping gear.”

A surprised breath and suddenly, Stiles is being attacked with all the force of a hug a nine-year old boy could give.

Claudia swipes the paper from Stiles’ hand and signs on the dotted line.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful comments, kudos, hits, and bookmarks! I'm also very grateful to all those people who have been patiently waiting for this. Hope everybody likes the update.
> 
> Also, big thanks to whoever commented that I was misspelling Stiles’ polish name this whole time! (My bad. And sorry, I’m having a hard time combing through the comments to see who it actually is.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Add enough stress and even the toughest material will break.

A heavy sigh and metallic green nails decorate hands already pinching a deeply furrowed brow.

His mind feels flooded by the information, a broken dam. Recalling the meeting brings along the Lord of the Rings marathon they had found after, just two-Stilinskis and one Lahey-Stilinski. He has to find time this week to stop by the Hale’s place and get access to the library. On Friday, he’s got the standing afternoon coffee meet with Kate because she’s needy and leaving soon. It’s time he’ll spend on her, if only for the updates she’ll constantly send him about.

Should he feel guilty?

                                                Yes.

Does he feel guilty?

                                                 _[ ~~Fill in the blank~~.]_

Another heavy sigh, then the lunch bell rings an announcement: what fleeting freedom is afforded for students and teachers alike.

He can feel Derek’s eyes on him, so he makes his escape and gets lost in the crowd. This time his lunch is a peanut butter sandwich and an apple, both mild scents compared to the cafeteria feed.

While both Stiles and Derek are closely aware of the other, neither notices the third set of eyes looking back and forth between them. This voyeur stands, purposely blocking Derek from getting to the younger brunette.

Jade darkens to malachite. Derek pauses, avoiding bumping the person hard (much as he wants to do differently). Scowl heavy, he’s pretty sure the guy is from basketball—Dan, Don, something. By the time he starts to move along, clothes and heads merge, indiscernible. He allows his teammates to herd him to ‘their’ table, unofficial but for the way others (all none athletes) steer free and sit peripheral. They crowd and jostle, and Derek can admit. It feels nice to be awed, to be seen. As his eyes flit around and his smile turns to lead, green leaf lands on dark earth, a frame of waves and pale, mono-dotted skin.

On the other hand, Stiles sits in a seemingly empty hallway, a rare solace. Spok warns him of incoming footsteps. The alcove having nothing to offer, the owner of these footsteps are either searching for their own lone serenity or him. He expects Derek, and is surprised to be faced with a boy, who’s light brown and blond-ish curls remind him of sandy beaches. The face seems familiar, but Stiles has no name to tack onto it.

“Hey, Zee-whatever.”

“Stiles.” The younger brunette corrects automatically.

The other boy blinks and gives the younger a look of disinterest. “Whatever. Keep away from Derek, okay? You and your gayness.” On his last statement, the other wiggles his fingers mockingly.

Stiles responds with a pitying and sassy expression. “What do you think I’m trying to do here,” Gesturing to his no longer alcove of solitude, he grabs his lunch. “The kid’s persistent.” The brunette pauses, taking a bite. Observing the other boy about to leave from his periphery, he interrupts, mouth still chewing “And first of all,” he pauses to swallow. “Just cuz a guy likes to wear nail art doesn’t automatically mean they’re gay. Also, it’s rude not to introduce yourself.”

The guy gives Stiles a dubious look. “… Right. We’re in the same class, man. I’m sure the genius who started school early can match a name and a face.” 

“Damn right, I’m right.” Stiles takes another bite of his sandwich, completely ignoring the latter statement. Of course, he can figure out who the other is by a name and a face through the school, but why confirm when he can be underestimated.

The curly, dark-haired blond rolls his hazel eyes. “I don’t care. Whatever you are, gay or straight. Just don’t bother Derek. We’ve got an upcoming game against Idyllwild.” When his statement receives a blank response, he groans and tousles his curls. “Idyllwild? Our rival team?” 

Wrinkling his face, Stiles stares at the boy, disinterested.

“If we win, then we get to rub Idyllwild's preppy face in it.” Donovan continues, excitement at the last word. “Unless,  _you_  don’t mind being free game.” As the boy was talking, he’d been closing the distance between him and Stiles’ seated form. Crouching down, he invades Stiles’ space further.

Intimidation methods falling short in the face of Stiles’ glare, the younger responds with an undercurrent of danger: “Move any closer and you’ll be more gay than anybody else thinks of me  _and_  my painted nails. Although,” Stiles gives the boy an obvious one-over, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re a little repressed.”

The guy gawps, torn between being impressed at the other’s gall and embarrassment for himself. A chuckle escapes him before he forcefully coughs and grimaces. He shoves the boy’s shoulder with a heavy hand and walks away.

Stiles rolls his eyes at the other boy’s absurdity. He pets Spokój, who is wrapped around his wrist and had felt tense throughout the exchange ever since the bully incident. With the distance growing between them and the other refusing to turn back, neither Stiles nor Spokój are aware of the confused and entertained smile gracing the face of the boy who’d threatened Stiles only to receive a threat in return. He shakes his head and chuckles, quietly. 

Spokój comments:  _“That boy was rude. He never even gave us his name.”_

Stiles shares some of his lunch with the kudagitsune.  _“I’m not remotely interested to know about some homophobes’ name, Spok, much less worry about one who’s confused. If he needs a mentor in what queer actually is, then I could always hand him over to Cyrus. Dude seems like he’s got his shit together. Like really together, I’m jealous, so jealous. Plus, you really think that guy would follow through on his threats?”_

_“He seemed sure about his beliefs, but he was not overtly violent as compared to that other one.”_

_“Exactly. I think the guy’s aim is to literally just keep me from distracting Derek for this upcoming game. Though, I don’t get why he’d feel the need to go this far. It’s not like Derek’s the only one on the team. It’s a whole team.”_

Spokój squeaks in agreement and runs his teeth teeth lightly across his boy’s radial pulse, an act of comfort for himself and his boy.

 

****

 

_“It’s hump day!”_

_“You mean Wednesday.”_

_“Don’t ruin this for me, Spok!”_

_“Ruin what? Giving the day of the week a different name?”_

_“Yes, exactly! That and since I’m caught up on all my homework for the week, I got the okay from mom to go over to the Hale’s today to check out their library. It’s hump day!”_

Spokój simply gives his boy a slow blink and turns away to continue eating his breakfast.

“It’s hump day!” Stiles yells at the top of his lungs. 

Isaac walks into the kitchen, his hair damp and a towel over his shoulders. “You mean Wednesday.” He brings out a hand to pet Spokój and is surprised to receive a fist bump, technically head-and-fist bump, from the kudagitsune. Isaac grins, albeit a small one.

“Et tu Isaac.” Stiles calls out in exaggerated anguish and shoves a spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth.

Isaac grabs his own bowl of warm oatmeal and berries.

 

** 

After the school day is done, Stiles checks that Derek is at basketball practice before using the forest as a shortcut to get to the preserve. By the time he gets to the Hale house, his breath takes less time than before to get short from running the distance.

He’d called in the morning to let Talia know and received the all clear from her, so he’s not even remotely surprised to see her husband greeting him at the door. If wolfy-hearing can pick up a heartbeat, his must be a blared siren to every Werewolf in the vicinity that he needs to start running more regularly.

“Hi there, Mr. Hale.”

“Hey, Stiles. And please, call me Rhonin. Did you have a good run?”

“It went well, though I could definitely do with some more distance running.”

Rhonin blinks and makes an agreeing motion. Laugh lines edge his kind smile. “Feel free to run through the preserve as much as you want. Some of the kids play games through these woods, and if you want a challenge, you could always play tag with the younger ones. They could use some more practice in tracking.”

“Playing bunny to a bunch of pups? Bring it on.” Stiles smiles cocky.

Rhonin laughs and pats the boy’s shoulder, good-natured. “Want a bite to eat?”

“Nah-” He gets cut off at a very loud gurgle from his stomach. Stiles rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble, at all.” Rhonin pulls out a plate of grilled-cheese sandwiches with tomato slices. “Hope you’re not lactose-intolerant.”

“Oh, no worries on that front. I’ve still got a few more years before it kicks in and makes me hyperaware of every bathroom and how long it takes to get to it.” Stiles says distractedly. His eyes focused entirely on the sandwiches.

Rhonin blinks. “Interesting, I didn’t know lactose-intolerance was now calculable to what age it develops.”

Stiles blinks in return and chokes a little bit on the sandwich he just took a bite of. He coughs and presses a fist to his chest.

Rhonin pats the boy’s back and grabs a glass of water. “Here, drink.”

The brunette teen keeps coughing, a physiological response to dislodge the obstruction in his throat. He fights it and swallows down the piece of food, despite the harsh feeling it leaves behind as it travels down. With a grateful nod, he takes the glass and sips carefully.

“Are you okay?” Rhonin asks the boy.

“Well, other than almost choking on a grilled cheese sandwich, I’m good. I should really learn to chew thoroughly.” Stiles stares at the sandwich, before he shakes his head and nibbles delicately. “Umm, is it okay to bring this sandwich with me in the library or?”

“That’s fine.” Rhonin tosses out a careless gesture. “Technically, my wife would be completely against it,” He runs a finger through his beard, a cheeky smile that reminds Stiles of Derek in those rare relaxing moments. The man shrugs broad shoulders. “But considering how many times Peter has brought in a meal for his all-nighters, if he hadn’t he’d be more skin and bone. Just be careful around the books and clean up after yourself. That’s all I ask.”

“Be careful around the books and cleaning up after myself.” Stiles counts his fingers. “I can totally do that. And Mrs. Hale said not to take out the books, too.”

“Yep, good of you to know.” He takes out the key. “Let me show you the way, and feel free to call anytime. There’s a landline there that’ll let you call to anywhere.” Rhonin rips out a piece of paper and scribbles something down. “And this is the number for the house. And, if you’re comfortable taking the way yourself next time. Just call ahead, and I’ll meet you right here in the kitchen to stow away the key.”

“Yes, sir.” Stiles salutes, taking the paper before folding it away. Rhonin returns it jauntily.

“So, you like reading through all this stuff? Maybe planning to look into supernatural studies or something?” Rhonin asks as Stiles adjusts everything he’s carrying.

“It’s definitely interesting. But I don’t know if I’d wanna do it for a paid job.”

Rhonin nods his head. “You’ve got time.”

Stiles had nothing to say after that, neither confirmation nor denial.

As it turns out, the way to the library is actually much farther than looking for a room in the house. They walk down into the basement and go through one of the paths in the tunnels.

Stiles whistles. “You’ve got an extensive set up down here.” Wordlessly, he signals for Spokój to keep track of their route and the number of paths the tunnels could lead to.

“The Hales have been here for generations, and the way for Werewolves to thrive amongst an ever-growing human population is by being careful.”

“Point. But considering how we’re the only ones in the whole house, I’m guessing only a select few are even aware of the tunnels.”

Rhonin looks back at the boy, impressed at his perceptiveness. “Yes and no. The kids know about the tunnels, but they only know the escape routes. They don’t really know about where the others lead.”

“How come?”

“Talia doesn’t want the kids to get too involved with the rest of the supernatural world.”

“So it’s better to leave them ignorant about what’s out there?” Stiles winces at his own words, not unaware of the way he’s been side-lining Derek.

“It’s a running argument between me and my wife.” Rhonin makes a contemplative but accepting face. “You’re friends with Derek, aren’t you?”

“Well,” he pauses. “I can’t honestly say I’ve been a very good friend lately.” Stiles knows better than to lie to a werewolf about his own relationship with said werewolf’s kid.

“Oh?” Rhonin voices, appreciating the boy’s candid approach and surprised not to be given honeyed platitudes followed by empty words.

“Yeah.” Stiles stops, so does Rhonin.

The silence echoes and extends to farther reaches than any call or howl could reach within the chambered space. Since Stiles seems to have nothing more to say, Rhonin starts walking. He doesn’t stop or hesitate when he hears the second set of footsteps start some moments after him.

“It’s good to know when you’re making a mistake. But it’s better to learn from it.”

Stiles doesn’t pause in his steps, but he listens. “But I don’t even know if I’m doing the right or wrong thing.” It’s a loaded confession in more ways than Derek’s dad could possibly understand. He’s never physically said these words to anyone.

“Is being a bad friend the right thing to do?”

“No- yes… it’s okay if it’s for my friend’s benefit… isn’t it?”

“Are you the one deciding what benefit your friends will get out of the choices you’ve made for them? Or is it a benefit your friends are choosing to get for themselves?”

No answer follows, so the two continue on through the dimly lit way. Each step echoing in the closed space, only the ears of a wolf able to discern breaths among footsteps. A cadence rhythm advertising deep contemplations, separate and together, nonetheless intertwined in spiral turns.

“We’re here.” Rhonin announces and brings out the key, making sure that Stiles sees how the mechanism is opened.

The metal door doesn’t make the same age-old creaking the way it did _before_. No rust invading its body like an insidious vine through a dying tree. What awaits inside takes Stiles’ breath away. Sunlight bathes the room’s every corner with hues of orange, yellow, and hints of pink. From floor to ceiling, books and trinkets abound, and a rolling ladder leans on one wall to help reach the higher shelves. Couches are strewn around a wooden coffee table in the center. Its foundation solid with a minimum of nicks and scratches, cared for and used.

“Woah.”

Rhonin chuckles, bringing Stiles out of his entrancement. “Just based on your reaction, I can tell these books are gonna be in good hands.”

Stiles blushes and grins, not trying to fight the excitement rippling through his body at the chance to find missing pieces and putting them together.

“You sure the two sandwiches you packed are enough?”

“Oh yeah. Anyway, when I get into a research binge, I don’t really remember to eat food, so it’s all good.” Stiles sets his stuff next to the table and immediately darts to one of the shelves, checking titles and pulling any he deems relevant. In his excitement, he misses how Rhonin grows concerned.

“I’ll be back in thirty-minutes. Just to check on how you’re doing.” Rhonin states, but is unsurprised to not receive a reply with how deeply invested the boy’s attention is on the books before him.

As promised, Rhonin comes back thirty-minutes later to see Stiles on the floor surrounded by a scattered mess of papers on the table, the couch, and the floor. He holds a tray balanced on one hand, orange juice and more grilled-cheese sandwiches. Rhonin sees an unusual elevated section of the scattered papers. When he takes a closer look, he sees the half eaten grilled-cheese sandwiches from before just sitting there, looking unwanted, forlorn, and forgotten. Turning to the still distracted boy, Rhonin clears his throat. Again, he repeats the action but much louder than before.

“Stiles.”

 

“Hmm.” The boy responds automatically inattentive. Spokój, curled around his throat, is resting.

A little annoyed and worried, Rhonin applies a trick he learned from dealing with his own children. He empties the tray and drops it on one of the solid tables, a crash without injury.  

Stiles startles badly, and his papers fly away in the ensuing scramble. In the aftermath, Stiles is left in a defensive curl. His hand clutched to Spok is the only thing keeping him from going into a panic attack.

“Stiles?” Slowly, Rhonin approaches the boy’s form on the sofa. He can clearly hear the boy’s rapid heart rhythm, more accelerando than ad libitum. “Sorry about that. It usually works on my kids…” Rhonin’s voice trails off.

Shaking minutely, Stiles holds his breath and releases it in a rush. A record needle on repeat. 

“Stiles?” Rhonin is within arms reach of the boy, but. “Can I-” A father of three, but he’s having a hard time handling one child. “Breathe in. Hold. Two more seconds. Out.” He continues voicing this mantra and watches Stiles’ chest rise and fall in tandem.

Inhale and exhale, Stiles breathes and his heart follows freely. “I’m good. Sorry.” He uncurls every part of his body. Focusing on his hand, he stretches his fingers out and curses silently at the presence of a lingering tremor.

“Nothing to apologize for. It was my fault.” Green, hazel eyes look at the boy, confused and worried. His attention turns back to the not empty plate, revealed in the scattered aftermath. “You didn’t finish your sandwich.”

Honeyed brown looks down at the once bitten sandwich. “Oh. Yeah, I wasn’t that-” His stomach betrays him with a loud growl.

“How about you come have dinner with us later? The sun is almost setting-”

Stiles looks around, just now realizing how much dimmer the place is now that the natural light is waning. “Um, that’s okay. I should be getting home before then.”

“Actually, your mom called a few minutes ago and said she tried to call you earlier? But-”

“What?” Stiles grabs his phone and realizes he’d left it on silent. “Aw, man. I need to call her back.” Scrambling, he quickly presses the call back button. A few rings pass before it gets picked up. “Mom?”

“Stiles?”

“Yeah, sorry. Left my phone on silent since school. 

“That’s okay. I figured it was something like that, so I called the Hales. How’s it going? You finished your homework before you _y’know_ , right?”

Subconsciously, Stiles tilts his head, a bit like a confused pup. 

Rhonin bites back a smile, reminded of his own kids.

“Uh, well. If you meant, did I finish my homework before I started looking through the Hales’ books about witches and rituals, then yes.” Stiles transitions to a stuffy, British accent: “Yes, of course I did, mother. My education comes first, to besmirch my honor with your accusations-”  

Stiles doesn't need to see to know that she's huffing and rolling her eyes. “Yes, yes. I concede. No need to take off any gloves and start slapping people for a duel of pistols at noon. But seriously, how are you? Did you eat? I know how you get when you’re too engrossed in whatever you’re doing.” 

“I ate a sandwich Mr. Hale gave me.”

At the blatant lie, Rhonin releases a loud cough.

“What was that? Is Mr. Hale there? Give the phone to him.”  

Before Stiles can protest, Rhonin brings a hand out, to which Stiles reluctantly places the phone in the waiting palm. Rhonin and Claudia talk back and forth for a few minutes, but Stiles doesn’t even try to ask for Spokoj’s enhanced hearing. The boy can guess, and guess correctly, what they’re talking about.

“Here you go, Stiles.” Rhonin passes the phone back.

The second Stiles ear meets the phone, Claudia starts to speak. “You’re gonna eat before you go back home. And don’t forget to thank Mr. Hale-”

“Just Rhonin is fine.” Said man interrupts loud enough to be heard by Claudia.

“Fine. Thank Rhonin for letting you use their library and eat their food. Knowing you, I already asked if it would be okay that one of them drive you back home, so you can get more time to look over those books, which you’ll probably still be obsessing about by the time you get home.”

“What about Isaac? And my curfew?”

“Your curfew applies when you’re out with friends being a teenager. I know your just bundled up right now, surrounded by notes and books, am I wrong?”

Stiles grins. “No, you’re not. Isaac?”

“Isaac is at Jackson’s with the other kids. Jackson’s mom had the day off, so she volunteered to look after them this time around.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“Isn’t it? Anyway, the station is a little understaffed today and some kind of murder happened at Beacon City, so I need to stay a bit later than usual. I’d rather have you staying with the Hales instead of alone at home.”

“Technically, I’m not alone at home.”

“Even so, Stiles. Be polite and grateful. And just have dinner with the Hales, I already asked Rhonin about it.”

“We’ve got the room.” Rhonin adds.

“Don’t I know it. Honestly, these rich people.”

Both Rhonin and Stiles laugh at Claudia’s exaggerated bemoaning. “Okay, mom. If it’ll help you feel better.”

“Definitely makes things less stressful for me. I’ll call you later to check on you. Might be home around ten, but we’ll see. Feel free to get a ride home from the Hales. I don’t want you walking around the woods in the dark alone.”

“Again, not really alone.” Stiles pets Spokój around his throat.

“Unless you have Treebeard or Peter with you, then you look alone. Which makes you an ideal target for-”

“Creepers, kidnappers, and weirdos. I get it.”

“Good. Stay safe. Love you, Szczepan.”

“Love you too, mom.” Stiles turns back to Rhonin. “I’m guessing you heard the lady?”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Rhonin quips back, easy-going. He doesn’t refer back to Stiles’ earlier reaction. Based on what he can surmise of the boy’s personality, he wouldn’t get a clear answer in the first place. “So you’re good? There’s more food and an orange juice right here.” The man throws a thumb to gesture at said contents.

“Yup, I’m good. Thank you.” The boy rubs a self-conscious hand over his hair. “And sorry again about-” One long-fingered hand waves about, a deprecating smile to support the motion.

A hand out, palm facing forward. “Really, nothing to be sorry about. It was my fault. I’ll be back in another thirty-minutes. Dinner should be ready by then. Hope you like pasta.” Rhonin smiles affably.

“Sounds good. Thanks.” Stiles turns back to the mess of papers and attempts to organize them based on what he’s written and which source they came from.

Rhonin keeps the easy-going attitude until he closes the door gently behind him. As he walks through the darkness of the tunnels, no light needed to see the way, he thinks back on Stiles’ reaction. He’s worked with veterans before at the VA (Veterans Affairs) Hospital, and he can’t help but see some similarities in that lone boy. A reaction to jarring sound bringing a full-grown man to fight or flight, mirrored in the body of a teenage boy. Walking to the end of the tunnel, Rhonin takes a breath that makes his shoulders rise and fall.

 

** 

_“Spok, anything?”_

_“Don’t you think I would’ve told you if there was?”_

_“Well, excu~se me.”_

_“You’re excused.”_

_“When did you get so sassy?”_

_“After spending a few days with you.”_

Stiles laughs hysterically. His breath getting short with every wheeze. Tears wet his eyes, but they don’t fall.

Spokój squeaks and uncoils from Stiles’ wrist.

_“I’m crying, Spok.”_

_“I don’t have tear ducts.”_

That last sentence puts the boys through another bout of hysteria, Stiles crying and Spokój rolling. When the laughter dies down, Stiles is left starfished on the rug under the table and Spokój an unspooled cord on top of Stiles.

 _“I’m tired, Spok.”_ Stiles looks up at the bare, cement ceiling. Lamplight illuminating the long length of his lashes into stark relief and placing his silhouette on the floor to stretch to the bottom bookshelves. He closes his eyes, tear tracks leaving a trail down his cheeks.

Spokój slithers over his boy’s chest to curl around his bared throat. _“We’ve got a good amount of info. We can go home.”_

 _“It’s not that.”_ Underneath the skin of closed eyelids, the impression of pupils moves in search of something not found.

_“Talk to me.”_

_“...”_

_“Stiles?”_

_“...”_

_“Tell me a story of a sixteen-year old boy, his best friend, and what they found one night in the woods.”_

“… _Sounds like you know the story already.”_

_“We share memories, but that doesn’t mean I lived what you lived through.”_

_“Doesn’t it?”_ Stiles opens his eyes and examines the bare ceiling. _“Was I here_ before _?”_

 _“I don’t know.”_ Spokój looks at his boy worriedly. _“I understand if you don’t want other people to know. But me? Why won’t you talk about it.”_ An interrogative turned imperative in the hopes of inciting some revelation.  

 _“I can’t.”_ Getting up off the floor, he dusts himself off. Amber eyes turn dull as they look over the mess made and left behind. Idle hands become industrious as notes and books are stacked and folded to be put away.

_“You won’t.”_

The last book is slammed back into place. _“I won’t.”_

_“With the way you’re going, you won’t heal.”_

_“I’m not trying to.”_ Stiles gathers his backpack. He stands up. _“Are you with me, Lis Kiseru?”_

Spokój hisses from where his head rests over Stiles’ pulse. Eyes shining a bright sunset palette, the kudagitsune warns in a growl: _“If I have to answer that question, then you insult my loyalty and our bond.”_ The pipefox unravels. Its form turns large and ethereal into hues of polished iron and burnished fire.

Stiles feels Spokój's hold over him, unyielding. He can feel claws resting on his throat, even if he can’t see them. His body is still as stone, no fight to give and knowing he’s in good hands.

 _“Is that your intention, Sczczepan Anastazja Stilinski?”_ The kudagitsune’s shape enlarges to the size of a shed. Its shape is formless but for the face, vulpine and sharp with a breath of fog escaping through bared fangs.

While fear might be the underlying emotion sitting under his skin’s layer, this moment puts Stiles in nothing but overwhelming peace. _“You know it’s not.”_

_“Infuriating boy.”_

Spokój growls once more, deep and rumbling as thunder in a derecho storm. 

It reminds Stiles of the day his father was buried.

Suddenly, Spokój shrinks down into his physical, pipefox form and floats into Stiles’ open palms. Long-fingered juvenile hands tangled in the kudagitsune’s coils are brought close. Stiles rests his forehead on Spokój. _“I’m sorry... And thank you.”_

Spokój loops himself around Stiles’ neck, blunted teeth sitting over Stiles’ carotid.

Tomorrow, Stiles has to meet Kate.

 

**** 

[Friday]

 

Stiles sits in Chemistry class, waiting for Harris to start the lesson.

“Class, today you’ll be partnering up to complete a lab experiment. If you haven’t done the homework, then you’re out of luck. Because that worksheet happens to be your pre-lab requirement in order for you to actually be able to do the experiment and finish your post-lab worksheet.” Dressed in a dark suit and skin as pale as a ghost, Adrian Harris stands tall and thin. A smug smile on his lips at seeing the downtrodden faces littered throughout his classroom.

As said teacher observes people start to break off into their friend groups, he clears his throat and says: “Those of you who stood up, write your names on this paper-” A clipboard with a blank paper is held up. “The slower you move the longer you have to stay here, or you’re welcome to attempt the experiment at home lacking any of the needed equipment.” Everyone standing sighs quietly and forms in single file to sign the paper.

After the last person has signed, Harris takes the clipboard back. “I’ve assigned your partners, so there’s no need to look for a friend to work with. And as for those of you whose names are signed on this paper, you all get an automatic reduction of five-points for your assignment.” He stares the class down. “I’m hoping this will teach you all the art of listening, a vital ability for all students to have, especially in college.” Flat eyed and unimpressed, he adds: “Though I highly doubt half of you are capable of being in higher education. Back to your seats and wait until all partners have been announced.”

Stiles, sitting at the first row to best avoid a certain teenage werewolf in the back, simply looks on with an unaffected face at the not-so surprising hell Harris tries to put them through for being the last class of the day. The acronym T-G-I-F seems distant even on a Friday.

“-Stilinski and Hale.” Harris announces.

“What?” Stiles voices out, incredulous. His hand comes up to cover his treacherous mouth.

“Problem, Mr. Stilinski?” Harris finds the boy intelligent but that does not excuse any signs of question to his authority.

“No, sir. Sorry.” Stiles figures the faster they get over this, then the less chance Harris gets to dole out his groundless detentions. He’d been doing his best to keep a low profile and avoid Harris’ detentions.

“Hmph.” Harris continues: “Howell and Anderson.”

A head of curly, dirty blond hair pops up to glance at Stiles before shrugging and moving to ‘Anderson’.

By the time the last set of names are said, Stiles exhales with puffed cheeks and moves his backpack under his desk. He goes to the closest lab table, which just happens to be right next to him. When a few minutes pass by, he looks back and sees Derek sitting at a different lab table, scowling at him. Furiously, Stiles waves the other boy to come over.

Derek shakes his head. With a crooked smirk on his face, he flicks his right index and middle finger once, imperiously, for Stiles to move to him.

In return, Stiles shakes his head and openly waves him over with an unbothered face when he notices Harris is turning his attention on them.

“Problem, Mr. Stilinski? Mr. Hale?” Harris looks from Stiles to Derek.

With the teacher’s back turned, Stiles mouths ‘Get over here!’.

Knowing better than to antagonize the teacher with a reputation, Derek picks up his backpack. “Sorry, Mr. Harris. Just getting my stuff together.” He fights to keep his face from wrinkling as if he’s eaten a handful of sour grapes.

“Then get your ‘stuff together’ faster. Unless, you’d like to stay past the final bell.” Harris finishes and goes to hover over another group.

By the time Derek had reached Stiles’ side, the scowl he was fighting earlier is back in full force to glare in the face of Stiles’ obvious discomfort.

“Your face looks sour.” Stiles says as he pulls out his homework and hands Derek one of the worksheets for the lab experiment.

“Yeah? Well, your face looks constipated.” Derek dumps his backpack off to the side and sits next to Stiles, making sure no space is left between their shoulders.

His nose wrinkles exaggeratedly. Stiles huffs and says: “Ever heard of personal space, _Derek_?”

“Ever heard ‘I don’t care’, _Stiles_.” Derek elbows the younger at his side, hard enough to make the boy wince.

In retaliation, Stiles puts his arm over Derek’s when the other boy is about to write something down on his paper. When Derek aims a scathing look his way, Stiles only smiles innocently and bats his eyes.

A breath whooshes out of Derek and he rolls his eyes, not believing the act for a second but (grudgingly) finding amusement in it. “Let’s just get this done.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth.”

With that last word, the two delve into a comfortable silence. They work together easily like purposely arranged gears, teeth catching in the other’s open space—a functioning mechanism. If Derek asks a question, Stiles tries his best to answer and vice versa, but when neither knows an answer both minds work to find a solution.

Derek missed these moments that he’d only ever had with Stiles. It’s the same peace he can get from his family, but rather than feeling like the Alpha’s middle child, he feels like himself. Stiles challenges him and he can challenge back without fear of infringing over Pack dynamics and roles. He’s just Derek; neither athlete, nephew, nor brother.

When the chemicals they are using for the experiment are handed out, Derek can’t help but flinch back from the pungent smell. He can feel his features changing. His senses being assaulted, until a familiar scent of petrichor and honeydew takes over. Stiles’ neck is angled in front of his face and essentially blocking Derek from getting a direct whiff of the chemicals.

“I can make it so my scent is the only thing your smelling. Do you want that? Or do you just need to get used to it?” Stiles has been practicing his elemental magic, so making the air travel a certain way in a small space is no issue.

Derek blinks golden eyes. “I-“ his lips purse hiding peeking eyeteeth. “I’ll get used to it.”

Reading hesitation on Derek’s face, Stiles prompts. “What is it?”

“But... C-Could you just stay like this?” His face turns red.

Confusion covers Stiles’ mien before his eyes blink in understanding. “Sure. I guess it’s better to get used to the smell if we’re using this stuff again in another experiment. And don’t hesitate to ask, dude. I don’t mind acting like a pseudo-barrier to protect your sensitive nostrils.”

“Thanks.” Derek’s blank face is present to hide his embarrassment. To reinforce his machismo, he quips: “All you had to say was ‘yes’.”

“Unlike yourself, I am obviously not a man of few words.”

“Obviously.” Derek rejoinders but the small smile on his lips softens it.

Stiles smiles back, helpless. This Derek’s expressiveness is bewildering and refreshing, so at odds with his Derek’s closed off temperament. Two words to sum up Derek from before would be anger and listlessness. Even when his Derek had seemed to find some joy in his relationships, whether it was familial or romantic, some horrible event would transition comedy into tragedy. Looking back, Stiles wonders if his feelings for the man could have ever come to anything because he knows in some way that his Derek felt something for him. He turns away from the older boy, so that the other wouldn’t misunderstand at seeing his smile dim. “So, this question…” Stiles leans his head down at his paper.

Derek stays close to Stiles, their heads only a few centimeters apart as they go over the questions.

In just a few minutes, the two finish the experiment in its entirety. They look around and notice only a handful of others seem to be finished. They see Harris giving one group a hard time for nearly some kind of mishap of epic chemical proportions.

 _‘Poor schmucks. As long as it's not me.’_ Stiles thought to himself as he gets the chance to be an observer, rather than the previously common participant.

Spokój around Stiles’ arm and a little covered by the loose shirtsleeve, tightens minutely.

“Shouldn't we turn this in?” Derek uses his pencil to tap at the packet.

“And get extra-work to waste the time away till the bell rings?” Stiles bites his pen, holding it by its midline to sit horizontally between his teeth, and shakes his head emphatically.

Both sets of green and honeyed-amber glance at their teacher’s turned back. When said teacher moves to face their way, the two quickly arrange themselves to be immersed and distracted by their work. Once Harris is occupied with another group, Stiles taps Derek’s hand once, and amber eyes gesture to the clock ticking away at the front of the classroom.

“Fifteen-minutes…” Derek nods, contemplative and scheming. “Sounds like enough time for you to tell me why you’ve been staying over so often.” He aims an expectant look at widened, doe-like eyes. “And let's not forget that time when you, your mom, my mom, and Uncle Peter had to go somewhere right after dinner, Friday.”

If this were a comedy, Stiles’ mouth would gape, subsequently dropping his pen to let it roll with a clatter from tabletop to floor. But Stiles’ teeth respond by biting tighter, teeth digging deep to leave indentations in pliable plastic.

Derek raises a single eyebrow—in challenge, in askance, either or— more accusatory than inquisitive.

Pointedly, Stiles pulls a pen out, while his teeth still keep their hold on the dented pen. He faces away from the other boy and uses the ink of the pen in hand to point over each question in the worksheet packet. An arm, longer and tanner than his own, goes over his shoulders. A breath ruffles the small hairs on the nape of his neck. Eyes narrowing, Stiles turns to confront the older boy only to be centimeters close to Derek’s glare. The other boy’s face rippling slightly under his skin and jade green eyes showing hints of gold.

Despite his own growing ire and the tenuous hold over his control, Derek calmly uses one hand to pinch the end of the pen in Stiles’s mouth closest to him.

Stiles, maintaining his own glare on the other, seems to unhinge his jaw just enough to let the werewolf pull the pen away.

Golden eyes focus solely on amber brown, darkened to reflect hints of cognac. Derek opens his mouth to say-

“Time’s up!” Harris announces with a clap.

 

****

 

Walking to Starbucks, Stiles runs his thumb over the indentations marring his pen. It feels weird to be grateful for Harris’ douchebaggery-- at most, half of the class hadn’t finished the experiment (given ten more minutes, they would have, but). The man’s spiteful nature was actually useful this time around, especially in preventing Derek from interrogating him further. His teeth clench tight.

Knocking on glass brings him out of his head.  

Stiles looks to the sound and sees Kate at one of the tables inside, right next to the window. Tilting his head, he paints a grin on his face. If it weren’t for her trying to catch his attention, then he would have only moved past her. He walks through the door and moves to the table she’s occupying.

“Hey-”

Kate stands up and gives Stiles a hug, catching the boy off-guard. “Hey, you looked like you were a thousand miles away out there.” She lets him go and gives him a once over.

“Oh, uh.” Stiles adjusts his backpack. “Just a little worried about one of my classes. The teacher’s a known hard-ass, so-”

“So you’re worried about your grade.” Kate nods, suspecting it was something along those lines to have distracted the boy so thoroughly. “Did you do your work?”

“I did.” Stiles shakes his head. “Forget about it. I’m gonna get a coffee.” He glances outside. The sky is clear, a gentle breeze rustles the leaves, and birds chitter as people walk by in the cool, temperate weather. “You seem settled here-”

“But the weather outside looks picture perfect for two friends to have a good conversation.” She smiles at the sheepish grin the teenager aims her way. Opportunities to relax with friends is a sparse experience in her two-decades and two years, so accommodating the boy with little things like this is no hardship. “How about I make the pot sweeter?” Kate suggests, a twinkle in her eyes.

Stiles blinks, curious.

“Go grab your coffee nectar first, and I’ll tell you.” She ruffles his hair, and Stiles wins over the urge to flinch. Kate grabs her cup and her cranberry-walnut muffin. Following after Stiles, she continues to simply stand by him and stays in close proximity.

Unseen, Stiles uses one hand to brush gently over Spokój, who is coiled around his wrist. He gives his order and a few minutes later, armed in hand with his coffee, he turns to the older woman.

Kate loops her arm through Stiles’ empty one. She moves to match the pace of her swaying hips with Stiles’ relaxed gait.

“Are you gonna tell me now?”

“Can you pick up the pace? Please?” She bats her eyes, more of a joke than any real attempt at flirtation.

“No.” Stiles takes a hearty sip of his coffee not bothering to hide the satisfied sigh, a result of tasting his hot, caramel macchiato.

“But I want to sway my hips.”

“Then sway away. I’m not stopping you.”

Kate scoffs, faux-annoyed. She tightens her hold on the boy’s arm. “Fun sucker.”

“Hmm.” He curls the arm around his, reciprocating, and doesn’t miss the little smile that he sees in his periphery. Looking forward, Stiles notices that they’ve reached the crosswalk. Just as he moves to stop at the pedestrian stop light, he feels a strong tug on his arm making him take more steps forward. “The light-”

“And nobody’s coming.” Confidently, Kate flips her hair and picks up her speed.

Stiles follows if only to avoid lingering in the middle of the road. “You could’ve just said that you wanted to go to the park.” There is only one park within walking distance of the Starbucks they sit at.

She shrugs and the smile on her face doesn’t waver.

Stiles shrugs with the arm holding his coffee, and he accepts the slight weight she leans on him.

A paved pathway goes through the man-made greenery. Benches are sparsely spaced out within the space, only a few people occupying them. They walk arm in arm, Kate leading them deeper into more secluded and wooded areas. They stop at an empty pond, but for the ducks and squirrels out and about, domesticated enough to be unaffected by the presence of humans. Pond water covered in algae, gathering at the sides, and the color of greenish blue reflecting back on its surface.

Stiles looks at the ground. Checking for animal droppings and finding none, he sits down with legs crossed and frees himself from his backpack.

Kate follows suit and starts to break up her muffin. As she moves to throw a piece of her muffin out into the pond, she’s interrupted by Stiles’ hand taking hers to steal the piece of pastry and eat it for himself. She laughs. “If you’d wanted a piece, all you had to do was ask.”

Shaking his head in the negative, Stiles holds up a single finger to swallow before he speaks. “It’s not really good to feed bread to ducks. The same with rice to birds.”

“Oh?” Kate takes a bite of her muffin and gestures for Stiles to say more.

“There’s no real nutritional value, that and considering how those ducks didn’t so much as flap a wing when we showed up shows that they’re already pretty used to people. Which is bad, cuz what kind of survival instinct is it to not run away when something bigger and potentially dangerous shows up, a.k.a. humans. Also, if those ducks get used to being fed by people, then they could start to not bother feeding themselves and just end up relying on being fed by humans who eat empty calories and low nutrition foods.” Stiles takes a hearty sip of his coffee.

“Huh. Nice to know.” And sips her own coffee.

“You meant ‘need to know’.” Stiles quips, leaving Kate to raise her hands in placation.

She points a finger with a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, Stiles the Duck Protector.”  

“Eh-hem. It’s actually Duck Dodgers, for your information.” The boy replies haughtily and waves an arm as if throwing a cape back. “Didn’t you notice the invisible cape? How deth~picable.” Stiles thumbs his nose.

Kate chuckles.

“Which reminds me. You’re not paying for-”

“What?” She yells over him, feigning poor hearing and smiling all the while. “Can’t hear- Krsch, krsch- You’re breaking up- I can’t,” Kate mimes holding a phone.

Eyes widening to deer in headlights levels, Stiles stifles the laugh that is still bubbling past his lips and hands, coffee forgotten to the side. “What the hell is-” He says through interspersed laughter. “Oh my g-d. You’re not holding a phone!” The boy hiccoughs and points, confused and embarrassed. “I don’t know you. I don’t know this person!” He announces to no one, really, seeing as it’s still only them and other pond-at-the-park critters.

With reddened cheeks, Kate glares, a gleam of mischief in her eye. Since Stiles is still distracted, she pounces and goes for the belly.

Unseeing of the danger, Stiles gets tickled to near breathlessness.

“Say that you know me! Acknowledge our friendship!" 

“O-Okay! Just stop- Please!” Stiles begs, so Kate decides to practice mercy. Catching his breath, Stiles lets himself fall back to be cushioned by his backpack.

Kate ruffles the boy’s hair before she looks off into the pond.

The two share a comfortable silence, one immersed in the moment and the other conflicted by it.

A breath taken. “Stiles.”

“Hm?”

“You know when we first met?”

“What about it? Are you talking about when you called me a weird kid?” Stiles keeps his position, but he angles his head to her.

“Yeah, you are that.” Kate says mildly, a smile to soften any perceived sting. “But not what I meant.” She leans back on her hands and looks down at him. “That time when you said you were Phoebe Halliwell.”

Stiles turns his eyes up to sky, thinking. Remembrance alights as a glimmer in his eyes. “Yup. My E.S.P. and my magically disappearing boobs.” He hides his suspicion of her behind a grin.

Kate chuckles. “Exactly, you’re disappearing C-cup.”

“D, thank you very much.” Stiles corrects, huffy.

Kate rolls her eyes and pokes the boy in the forehead. “Do you believe in that?”

“Believe in what? The D-cup thing?” He shrugs, guileless. “Honestly, I just said that to be a little shit. As a teenage boy, I am aware of boobs and the variety of sizes. Can I I.D. them accurately by eyeball? No. Not even close.” Stiles waves his hands ‘no’ by making a cutting motion at his neck.

Laughing helplessly, Kate shakes her head in denial. “No, no. Not what I was asking about. G-d, no.” She covers her eyes, leaving her smile to shine through uninhibited. Bodily, she turns to Stiles and takes his hands to pull him up. At Kate’s direction and Stiles’ acquiescence, the two sit cross legged and across from each other with their height practically even. “Serious time.”

“Serious time.” Stiles parrots, a grin still sitting on his mouth.

Kate sends a pleading glance with enough cajolery to make Stiles blink into neutral acceptance. “Stiles, do you believe in magi, vampires, witches, and werewolves?”

“Oh my.” He instinctively adds after she listed things out. Stiles doesn’t even flinch at the flick he receives on his arm. It was expected. “Uh, why?” Maybe, he’s laying on the confusion too thick.

“Just-” Kate tries to think up a reason without explaining entirely. “Humor me. Do you or don’t you?”

“Uh, well.” To admit belief or not is the question to bring about hesitation. “I think… that there’s a lot of things that we --people, humans--” He gestures largely to encompass himself, them, and those who are not present. “--have no idea about. So, yeah. I guess I believe. Or you could just call me open-minded.” A shrug of the shoulders and an easy attitude; a teenager who is asked a question to gauge his maturity providing insight without offering experience in his answer. 

Kate nods. Her face shows understanding. “Open-minded is nice. But you know that if you do meet any of those _things_ \--” She curls her lip, conveying obvious disgust. “-- you run the other way.” ‘ _right?’_ Her tone implies and is further emphasized when she suddenly moves into his space. 

A little taken aback at her sudden vehemence, Stiles’ whole body instinctively jerks backwards. “If it’s dangerous-”

“There is no ifs or buts about it, because they are.” Kate insists.

Stiles blinks wide, confused eyes. “That’s a pretty strong opinion to have about a hypothetical.” _‘isn’t it?’_ His tone implies, reasonable and skeptical.

She reaches out and holds Stiles by the forearms. “Tell me Stiles, what’s one name you can use to refer to witches, vampires, and werewolves?”

“Kate, what brought this-”

“Stiles. One name. One word. What would it be?”

He pauses to play at thinking over the question. “Fantasy? Supernatural?”

“The word you’re trying to get to is _monster_.” Dark hazel stares into honeyed cognac. “Things like that are monsters, Stiles, and you’d be better off staying away. Alright?” She implores.

“Kate,” Stiles gapes, openly confused and unsure. Internally, he wants to bare his teeth at her. To scoff at the self-righteous and erroneous shit coming out of her mouth, because he can show her how humans can be just as monstrous if not more so than her petty prejudices. “You’re freaking me the fuck out, right now. Didn’t we just talk about how that stuff is a possibility?”

“And if they’re not a possibility? If monsters are as real as us?”

Mouth opening like a fish out of water, he licks dry lips. “Why are you telling me this?”

Her lips purse firmly, embarrassed, determined, and honest in all turns. “I told you that I’m leaving this weekend. And you’re… you’re my only friend.” This last sentence she whispers between them, in a voice so quiet as to avoid being carried by the breeze fluttering by-- different hues of brunette ruffled only to fall back in place.

“Really?” Disbelief verbalized without any malice or mockery to cause affront.

In response, Kate only glares at the boy mutely. Her grip tightens on his forearm, painless.

He glances down at the grip and turns his eyes back to hers. What she’s given him is practically a confession. She values him, and in return he: “Okay.” Stiles returns the hold, firm.

**Hook.**

She smiles, grateful. “My full name is Kate Argent. And my family, believe me or don’t, hunts monsters.” Her face turns downtrodden. “I guess you could say that’s where my ‘daddy issues’ started…” From there she tells him that since she won’t be around, she just wants to make sure he’ll be safe. That she’ll stay in contact, no matter the distance. If he doesn’t mind, then she’d like to tell him about the jobs she’s had to do, going to do for her dad.

 **Line**.

He sympathises when he’s supposed to. He smiles when she makes light. Stiles returns the grip she has on him, and swallows the hysteria bubbling inside.

**And sinker.**

She tells him enough.  

 

****

 

[Monday]

 

Wetting his hands, he splashes the water on his face like every face-washing commercial shows people how it’s ‘meant’ to be done. Two perfect arches of water to frame the model's wet face... Stiles scoffs. He uses a washcloth to dab away the extra moisture, leaving behind a tired and barely well rested face --heavy purple bags if skin under groggy brown eyes, edges of the mouth downturned, and skin a perfect match to a fish’s belly ready to be cut open-- is mirrored. Turning his face here and there, every angle offers the same image.

Tired. 

Gustily, he sighs and follows with a smile, then a resting bitch face. Finishing off the many faces in view, he settles for neutrality. Ready to start the day. 

Homework.

                    Done.

Study for test.

                    Done. 

Make lunch.

                    Done. 

Looking through his closet, he ignores the expert landing of the thin, furry body on his shoulder. It moves to curl around his neck, and the boy’s shoulders relax on reflex. He pulls on a v-neck shirt his mom had picked out for him, the color a bright red transitioning to burgundy from his chest down; it fits well-enough that he can move around, if a little tight around his shoulders and fitting too well around his chest and abdomen. Next, he pulls a pair of dark-ripped pants, the first on his pants pile; probably just recently washed by his mom, since he hasn’t had much chance to really help out with chores.

 _“I really need to manage my time better.”_ He thinks and contemplates a planner. 

 _“Speaking of time, you’re gonna miss breakfast if you don’t hurry downstairs.”_ The kudagitsune shapes itself comfortably into a collar.

As he runs down, he makes sure to wrap an arm around Isaac and his mom before he reaches to pick up his lunch. “Sorry, but I’m gonna skip on breakfast.” Seeing as his plate is the only one left, he’d rather not keep everyone body waiting any longer than he already has.

“You sure? Why don't you grab some toast at least?” Claudia puts away the two used plates, then starts to hand Stiles the untouched third.

“Sure.” Manfully, he holds back a sigh and grabs a slice of plain toast. “Go ahead with Isaac. I’ll catch the bus.”

“Stiles, are you su-” Claudia asks, and even Isaac gets up off his seat mid-bite.

“Yup. Completely okay. Bye!” Stiles runs out, unseeing of the confused and worried looks the two share behind his escape.

Stiles makes sure the door doesn’t bang behind him, before he uses a brisk pace to get to the bus stop.

Just in time, he waits only a few minutes before the bus arrives and nibbles on his toast as he boards. A friendly nod and an obscured smile.

Sitting at the first open seat, only a few steps away from the doors, Stiles’ gaze blurs unfocused into a distance farther than the bus' dashboard.

English.

Biology. 

Geometry.

Each subject in a class of their own, but sharing one thing in common that day: silence. On Stiles’ part, his wordless homework submissions, devoid of any question or inquiry. His Geometry test was also a practice in silence, like a shadow moving as the sun changes position.

Now, it’s lunch, and he sits hunched in an empty alcove near the locker rooms. Stiles is alone with his thoughts until a voice calls for his name. He shuts his eyes and bemoans his apparent inability to hideaway. 

“Hey, Stiles.” A susurrus countertenor greets.

When he opens his eyes, Stiles is met with dark, almost fathomless black eyes framed by a soft face, maturity sculpting its edges. “What would you say if I said I was using somebody?”

A confused blink. “I would ask you, ‘Using somebody' in what way?’”

“And I would answer, ‘Using somebody in the emotional way’.”

“To which my response would be, ‘By emotional do you mean romantic?’”

“And my answer would then be ‘no.’”

“From there, I’d say, ‘no, what?’”

“Okay, we’re done with the hypothetical talk now.” Stiles finishes, a smile on his face, mirrored by Cyrus.

 Wearing a navy button down shirt with rolled up sleeves and legs clad in tight, dark jeans, Cyrus sits down on the floor with a polite distance between himself and the younger. “What’s up?”

The thirteen-year old shrugs.

Cyrus pulls out a container, the smell of spices seeping out as it opens to show balls of falafel. He pops one in his mouth. As he’s chewing, he says: “D’ruwama ton de hypahetikle rell?" 

Apropos, Stiles scrunches his face and says: “Try again without the mastication during.”

Cheeks bulging, Cyrus gives the boy a toothless grin. He takes his time thoroughly chewing and swallowing his food, before he repeats, “Do. You. Want to. Turn the. Hypothetical. Real… Question mark.” Enunciating every word, he changes into a more playful and questioning tone when he says ‘hypothetical’, while the last two words are said in deadpan.

Unimpressed, Stiles stares. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, whether at his own predicament or the predicaments life throws his way. “No, thanks.” The younger says sarcastically.

Cyrus scoots closer and flips his hair. “Come on, tell your big sister Cyrus what’s eating you.” He cajoles in a high voice. 

Stiles’ eyes grow wide, a fawn caught in headlights.

The older boy laughs at the younger. In his normal tone of voice, he says: “I’m kidding, Stiles. It’s just a joke.” He hiccups. “Your face, though.” Shaking his head, he leans his weight on Stiles’ shoulder. “Seriously, man. You can talk to me. For your information, gay guru happens to be included in my resumé.”

He keeps still, neither returning nor rebuffing the sudden closeness. “It’s not a hypothetical.”

Dark, black eyes focus on the boy’s side profile. “Why are you using someone? I would have thought the great knight, Stiles the Cute, would find such an act abhorrent in both idea and practice.”

“I do, and it is.” Stiles licks his lips. A heavy breath escapes him. For a boy just reaching his teens, the way the lights and shadows play across his face, most would see a man haggard and tired from the enumeration of years lived.

Wrapping his arm around the younger teen, Cyrus says: “You look tired.”

“Hm.”

Cyrus pets the boy’s soft hair. “If you’ve got time, wanna hang out later? Maybe have a sleepover?”

Stiles instinctively reacts with a refusal, but he wants to be selfish, even just for a moment. “I’ll ask.”

“If your mom would like, she can talk to me and my parents.” Cyrus adds and offers his phone to exchange contact numbers.

The bell to signal the end of the lunch hour rings. Soon after, as if summoned, students flock along in droves. By that time, Stiles and Cyrus have separated and headed to their own respective classes.

  
**

Stiles’ mom drops him off at Cyrus’ and the two families introduce each other with polite smiles that gradually grow to be more relaxed. He appreciates his mom’s effort, and it helps in some way that Claudia sees this as an opportunity for Stiles to act his age, rather than continue to be burdened with the supernatural. It’s just one night, and she knows Stiles won’t let himself get too distracted. Tomorrow, her boy will be back to those books, searching for answers into a world that she’d never doubted for existing but had never planned to delve further in it.

Cyrus stands by Stiles when his parents send off Miss Claud at the door, her hands occupied with two tupperware containers.

“Mom, dad. Do you mind if Stiles and I go out for a bit?”

 Stiles blinks at the question, not expecting any plans to be out, especially considering how all his stuff is packed away in Cyrus’ room.

Cyrus’ mom and dad look to each other and back at the boys. “Do you two have any homework to do for tomorrow?”

Stiles, already finished his homework, shrugs. “I’m done mine.” He did them during class.

“I don’t have any.” Cyrus smiles, happy. 

They reach some agreement. “Okay, but be sure to be back around ten. It’s still a school night.”

“Thanks!” Cyrus moves to hug his mom and dad, before he moves to take Stiles by the wrist.

Shyly, Stiles inclines his head and lets himself be pulled along. “Where are we going?” Stiles asks as he lets himself into Cyrus’ car, an old Toyota with peeling, teal paint.

“Some place that’ll help us cut loose.” The older boy smiles even wider, winsome.

“Is it illegal?”

Cyrus starts the car. He looks to Stiles, biting his bottom lip just a little. “Yes and no.”

“Sy, my mom is a detective.”

“If you don’t want to, we can go right back in the house.” Cyrus tells Stiles, his tone brooking no tease. “I just figured that I might take you somewhere nice. You know. Be teenagers, out having a fun night. Enough illegality to be thrilling without dangerous.”

Stiles sits and puts one hand over Spokoj, who’s wrapped around his wrist. “Drive before I change my mind. Safely.” He emphasizes the last word, insistent.

Cyrus playfully salutes. “Aye, aye.”

“Ha! I get it. You’re a butt-pirate.” Stiles grins at the light punch he receives on his shoulder. Both boys leave the driveway, faces split with smiles.

Stiles doesn’t know how to feel about the familiar alley and its roads, much less the neon sign. Though this time around, it’s not as large or as eye-catching more of a sign blending in amongst the city lights, expected rather than unique.

‘Jungle’

“You brought me to a club?” He asks his driver.

“Yup.” Cyrus parallel parks, expertly.

“Dude, I’m not dressed for clubbing.” Stiles stays in his seat, while Cyrus leaves his seat and opens the door for the younger.

Cyrus offers a hand out, and Stiles reluctantly takes it. When he pulls the boy up to stand, Stiles is level with his chest. With a clear up and down gaze, Cyrus gives the boy a pearly, white smile. “You look fine. Come.” 

The two walk straight up to the bouncer, probably about ten people in line glaring daggers at them.

“Cyrus.” Standing at probably six-feet, the bouncer is crossing his arms and glaring at the shorter. “I can let you in, no problem. But-” The man gestures at Stiles’ obviously under-age form.

Cyrus places a friendly hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Please, Reg. Promise I won’t let him drink.” The seventeen-year old pouts exaggeratedly.

Stiles looks back and forth between the two, and can’t help but grin when he sees the bigger man start to cave in. When the bouncer’s eyes land on him, he tries to keep his face as innocent and harmless as possible, subconsciously making his eyes look bigger and the reflection of the lights bringing out the gold in his eyes.

The bouncer sighs. “Alright. But you better give Mitch a heads up.” He takes out a black sharpie. “Gimme your hand, little Red.”

Blinking, Stiles gives the guy his hand and watches as a perfunctory ‘x’ is written in the space between his right thumb and index finger. “Little Red?”

The bouncer gives him a once over and follows it up with a smirk. “Betcha, Mitch’ll do the same.” This time he’s talking to Cyrus, who only smiles and nods.

“You’re probably right.” Cyrus throws an arm over the younger’s shoulders to lead him inside.

Stiles sees a more understated version of what he remembers. Instead of blinding strobe lights that could give any person with epilepsy seizures, the ambiance is dimly lit and intimate. Shadowy corners and dark-tinted colors to illuminate and expand the space without it becoming cavernous, a play on dimensions. The choice of music is rhythmic and melodious, bursts of pop music, touches of rock n’ roll, and an overtone of a smooth, throaty jazz. But one thing’s for sure. It’s still as queer as he remembers, and his smile lights up more for it.

“What d’ya think?” Cyrus whispers close into Stiles' ear. 

Rather than answering, Stiles’ attention is caught between the mix of homosexual couples, the majority, while only a handful of groups keep to the heterosexual and the rest are a mingling sort of friends. His mouth can’t stop smiling, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes. 

Cyrus chuckles and wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist. He pulls the boy along onto the dance floor. In the middle of swaying with the other couples to a slow song, Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ La Vida Loca” starts to play, causing people to gyrate and produce a contagious smiling phenomena.

Stiles laughs when Cyrus spins him, and he doesn’t even care when he steps on Cyrus’ shoes, because the older boy simply helps him turn his body fluid, flexible without breaking both in his physicality and his sense of self. Not one subconscious, self-conscious thought niggles at him, and Stiles can even hear and feel how Spokoj twists on his wrist with the music.

They dance for maybe ten-minutes, but just that much gave Stiles aching cheeks --smile muscles overtaxed. When Cyrus leads him away from the dance floor. His feet are floating too much. How he knows this for a fact is that he tripped purely on air, no obstruction in his way. Thankfully, Cyrus was expecting it because he’s caught in a stable hold, which he then turns into a full-blown hug.

“This is so lit!” Stiles whisper-yells in Cyrus’ ear, making the older boy chuckle and return the embrace.

“What?” Cyrus responds and shakes his head at the boy's antics. He wraps a hand on the younger's forearm to lead him to the bar.

From there, Stiles gets to meet Mitch, who is apparently Cyrus’ ex (the two are good friends now, though) and gives him the same look as the bouncer. “Hey there, Little Red.” Mitch greets. A smile full of white, straight teeth only accenting his sharp jawline and bright blue eyes.

Cyrus and Stiles dance two-more times before Stiles gets enough courage to accept another person’s offer to dance.

A night of revelry that brings the two closer, despite how few times they have been able to spend together. 

They get back to Cyrus’ home by nine, and the two watch a terrible horror movie; cheesy and unbelievable in rendition, while the actors simply scream their fear without a trace in their eyes. Their jeers and insults are heated whispers in Cyrus’ room, because both of Cyrus’ parents were off to bed once it was clear that both boys had arrived safely without any trouble. Both boys end up sharing a bed, Cyrus’ being a queen-size allows for two bodies. They mirror each other like brackets, but for Stiles’ smaller form and Cyrus’ longer stretch. 

Sleep doesn’t take long in the wake of exhausted exertion.

  
In the morning, Cyrus wakes up first. He register's the weight of a body resting on him. When he looks down, he sees Stiles’ form is curled up snuggly on his chest, one thin arm around him and the boy’s head drooling on his right pectoral. Not a snore escapes or a snuffle, but he can tell that Stiles is out for the count. Glancing at his alarm clock, he’s not surprised to see that it’s still five-thirty in the morning --a habit of his that’s hard to kill. One of Cyrus’ hands, the one free to move, goes up and pauses over Stiles’ head. Tilting his chin down, Cyrus can feel Stiles’ hair brushing his lips. His own arm still up, he leaves it to hover. From a bird’s eye view, directly overhead, the scene is reminiscent to _The Kiss_ by Gustav Klimt. A growing urge, but it’s not impossible to fight off. Carefully, he slides out from under the sleeping boy and goes to shower.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Witches gathered in a wood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. Hope everybody who's interested enjoys this update. Thank you again for all the kudos, comments, and bookmarks!

_ “Stiles!” _

 

_ Derek is running as fast as his growing legs can take him at the familiar site of a younger, brunette boy reading a book. Catching the boy’s attention, he gestures as best he can for the boy to get down but is received with the opposite. “Get down!” He yells, desperately.  _

 

_ When the smaller form folds in on himself, Derek covers him and braces for impact.  _

 

_ The impact is not so bad. But had it hit a ten-year old human, Derek knows it would have probably hurt so much worse, and he doesn’t want to think about it so he focuses his attention on the shaking boy beneath him. He hardly notices the bleeding gash on his temple.  _

 

_ As Stiles starts to sit up, a drop of blood lands on the center of his forehead and drips down the bridge of his nose.  _

 

_ Derek subconsciously holds his breath at the sight of those warm, brown eyes blinking up at him.  _

 

_ “Why would you-” Stiles seems to ask him with a tone Derek can’t describe other than dead and something more.  _

 

_ “Stiles-” _

 

_ “Hey! Are you kids okay?” The voice of a worried parent breaks through their circuitous, dual perception. Before Derek can voice an on-the-fly and not-so-believable lie, Stiles takes him by the hand and he lets himself be pulled along for the ride.  _

 

_ By the time they reach a secluded section of the woods, Derek simply stares at Stiles when the younger boy looks at him with an intensity that could easily burn faster than gasoline over dried hay. While the crushing grip on his hand would probably break most human hands, Derek barely twitches an eye. Just when he opens his mouth to say something, Stiles says:  _

 

_ “Don’t ever do that again.” As Stiles lets go, Derek sees every tremble in the smaller boy’s hands and mouth. His green eyes are riveted at the increasing wetness in Stiles’ eyes and even moreso when tears refuse to fall. _

 

_ “If you can’t--” Here Stiles bites his lip hard enough to bleed, an accessory to the dried trail of blood crusting on his face. “Don’t follow me.” And with those parting words, Stiles walks away from him. Derek’s outstretched hand slowly falling to wait at his side.  _

 

****

 

It’s not the first time that he sees the house, but there’s something about seeing it hale and whole (pun intended) in the afternoon light.

 

A colonial mansion’s size too grandiose to call a house. In his time, trees had stood taller and older, shadowing over the charred remains of a home holding the burned corpse of family. Walking up to a red door, he cannot help but recall its state of abandon-- paint peeling at all corners, portions blackened by fire, and the Alphas’ mark like graffiti over an already desecrated headstone.

 

He expects to see Mr. Hale’s kindly mien-- a surprising view thanks to the man’s rugged beard and obviously defined musculature. Stiles makes a face at realizing how Derek was able to carry menace through his eyebrows. Without seeing the man smile, Stiles imagines the looks of Rhonin Hale to fit in with bikers and those ne’er-do-wells who frequent seedy bars.

 

His knuckles rap twice on oak, light and unheard in most other same-sized homes.

 

_Doesn’t Mr. Hale kinda look like Wolver-’_

 

 

“Good afternoon, young Spark.”

 

Nana A pops open the door, not surprised to find the boy at the door. The array of his scent is adolescence in addition to the all-spice of crackling magic, but for the unique blend of a lightning storm and crushed honeysuckle. She can’t help but compare his mien to a startled rabbit, so she holds back the urge to tilt her head –she already memorized his scent during the first introduction.

 

“Grandma Hale?” He asks her, and the tone is honestly surprised if a bit confused. When he blinks at her, nonplussed, she wants to smile –more a baring of teeth. To her, he seems so painfully young but the boy’s unique cascade of scent, especially the one emanating from his neck makes the hairs on her neck stand on end. “Sorry, I was expecting Mr. Hale—uhm--”

 

Oh, she smells confusion and fear, algae-ridden waters and acrid fight or flight. “Uh, my name’s Stiles not-“

 

“Young man.” The predator in her is satisfied at the boy freezing in fright, while the grandmother in her frowns in abashment. “When you’ve lived as colorful a life as I have, noticing a Spark or two is easy compared to dealing with witches.”

 

She taps her patrician nose, twice –mischief in her eyes. Subconsciously, she runs a hand over her long braided hair of silver and black. When he only blinks back at her, she holds back the urge to sigh. “Would you like to hear a few stories of my adventurous youth? Lord knows my grandchildren have no interest.” Nana A sighs low, but she can’t begrudge her grandkids wanting to explore their own interests.

 

When she turns her attention back to the boy, Nana A sees his eyes shutter and smells the subtlest scent of hope like a bud in early spring struggling to fight through the lingering frost.

 

“Uh,” The boy wraps a hand around his wrist. “I mean. If you don't mind.” His shrug speaks volumes.

 

“Not at all.” Her smile gentles. “Come along, now. Oh, and before you sequester yourself in the library, I baked some scones.”

 

“Oh! Um, I don't really-”

 

Nana A tuts. “Now, now. No need to be shy.” She moves to the kitchen and starts to arrange a plate for Stiles, who happens to be haplessly following after her. “My nose knows that sooner or later you and yours will be a part of this Pack.” She mutters this to mostly herself.

 

“What?” Stiles asks confusedly and receives the plate without protest.

 

“Shall we?” Nana A starts for the basement. Adjusting his backpack and his plate, Stiles follows at her heels.

 

When they enter the tunnels, Nana A suddenly breaks the silence: “You and my grandson.” She hears the boy stumble and is relieved to not hear shattering ceramic.

 

“Um, which grandson? DJ? Oh, I don’t really know the kid that well, except for those few times I got to play a few games with them--”

 

“The same grandson that looks at you as if you hung the moon and brought it down.” She stops him before his jack-rabbiting heart can jump up to his throat. But it seems that she’s failed on that attempt, because not only does his heart jump but his breathing stops to try for control and fall short. “You’ve noticed, haven’t you?”

 

She hears his steps falter before he keeps pace with her.

 

“I-I don’t--” He sighs. She can hear the heavy-handed swipe of a clammy hand down his face. “If you’re talking about Derek, then-- I don’t know. I’m trying to stay away from him.”

 

“And why is that?” She notices that he hadn’t answered her question.

 

“Because I don’t want him to get hurt.”

 

When she was younger, she used to titter and laugh at hearing the world around her, the secret whispers that weren’t so secret. As time went on, that laughter turned to a form of grim understanding. She could hear her husband as he made sure to drive away the hunters that had been hunting their small family of four. She could hear her mate escape into the night, because he was more terrified of the fantasy of forever and family. She knew his heart was hers when she bore Peter and he stayed, but she also knew the life he’d lived left him fearful of happiness. In fact, she can hear the same despair and fear in the thirteen-year old boy walking behind her.

 

She hums low. “Even by you?”

 

Stiles’ silence is an answer in its own right, either understood or misunderstood.

 

“We’re here.” Nana A announces and without prompt hands the boy a key. His confusion is palpable and she answers it with an enigmatic smile. “Trust is earned Stiles.”

 

“I-”

 

“Best of luck on your research.” She pats him on the head once before she rests her hand on his cheek. Her eyes shine a dull red. “Don’t be a stranger, now.” And with those last words she walks off into the darkness of the tunnels, leaving behind the visage of a heavily confused boy clutching a bronze key in his hand.

 

 

Stiles shakes his head and walks through the threshold, letting it shut behind him.

 

Fifteen books later, Stiles has managed to collect enough notes on a possible lead. He calls Peter.

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure for receiving my princess’ call?”

 

“Your princess nothing. I think I know the ritual those witches are doing.”

 

“... Well, don’t leave me in suspense.”

 

Flipping through his notes he starts from the beginning and opens the first book. He continues on and by the last book, he gently flips the hardback closed. “-- and they seem to be following the lunar cycle. The first time we saw them might not have been their first but it was under a new moon. I’d have to check with Treebeard about the times he scouted them out-”

 

“Stiles.” Throughout Stiles’ rant, Peter hadn’t spoken a word to interrupt except for now. “We need to check the old tree.”

 

“What- why?”

 

“Stiles, don’t be stupid.”

 

“Hey! That is completely uncalled for.” Pupils dilating, but for the whites of his eyes engulfing them. His mind catches up to the stimuli of Peter’s words. “No.”

 

“Yes. I should be able to come back by Friday, so until then-”

 

“No, no, no.” His grip on the phone tightens, and he starts pacing. “Shit. I don’t-”

 

“Stiles?” Worry lacing his tone heavily. “Stiles? What’s wrong?” His voice unheard.

 

Frantically, the teenager hits the end call button on his Nokia. His breathing is starting to pick up. One hand finds its way to enmesh his fingers through his hair. Concentrated on his breathing, Stiles cares little for how hard he tugs.

 

Spokój snakes along his boy’s arm to tangle through the tight fingers and loosens them without pulling too much of the boy’s strands along.

 

A loud whoosh of air leaves him. Stiles licks dry lips, and gulps down the excess saliva in his mouth, throat bobbing. “O-Okay. Okay. Okay.” Another breath, in and out. “We’re going now.”

 

_“Stiles, wait. Shouldn’t we bring somebody along?”_

 

“If it’s what I think Peter was talking about, then no.” As he speaks, he gathers his backpack and stuffs his notes inside, crumpled papers and all. He walks out the door and locks it behind him. After using the key, Stiles has a thought.

 

_“Spok, I want you to tell me if anybody is nearby. I don’t want anyone stopping me. Or following me.”_

 

When all he gets in return is silence, he keeps walking. _“Spok. Come on, dude.”_

 

A mental sigh, without a doubt a more common event than unique. _“Fine.”_

 

**

 

“It’s not here.” Biting his lip, he looks around. “Spok, this is where Peter took us last time. Where is it?”

 

 _“Yeah, this is the same place. But… it feels empty?”_ Spokój slithers down Stiles’ arm and poofs into a silver fox, his eyes shining like opals in the dark.

 

Blunt teeth further abuse his dry, bottom lip. Blood wells up. “Keep walking. It’s gotta be around here.”

 

More time passes, and they’ve gone deeper and deeper into the woods, where not even the lights of the Hale house could be seen. Without warning, familiar green orbs surround him and Spokój. These lights obstruct any view of the outside as they twist like a pillar of fire. A tunnel of light, only a dark cloudy sky waiting at the end. No sooner had the pillar formed does it dissipate, scattering into what seems like a thousand constellations of green.

 

_“Stiles.”_

 

Stiles turns around. Pressed against his leg, Spokój does the same.

 

The Nemeton towers over him, but it’s shape is hunched. It's lush leaves wilting and falling.

 

**“Spark.”**

 

He hears muffled voices call, familiar. They sound haggard, throats parched and strangled. A cacophony of rusting brass shouting amongst snapping string and off rhythm percussions. Stiles keeps turning from one direction to the next, the voices calling left then right then low then above. “What?”

 

**“You ~~must~~ fulfill your role-”**

 

“Your voices keep breaking-”

 

 **“Weak ~~from the~~  ** **witches** **”**

 

“The ‘witches’?” Throat swallowing dryly.  

 

 **“** **Stop** **them. You must--”**

 

Rising panic. “How? I don’t- I don’t know where they are.” His eyes pinch shut, and he fights the urge to cover his ears. “I just, maybe, found out what they’re doing. If you’re so powerful, how about throwing the wolves a bone and giving me a hint--”

 

 **“--....---Your debt.** **Your life belongs to ~~us~~. ** **-.....---Sacrifice.”**

 

Stiles sways where he stands and wrestles down his fear at hearing those words repeated. Licking dry lips, his mouth opens only to pause, then: “Yeah, yeah. Broken record. I need some new--”

 

 **“Protect** **us** **with** **the life we gave** **you.”**

 

“I will!” He screams out, voice catching. “I’m going to do that, but--”

 

Suddenly, the fireflies spread around him and the tree. Foxfire embers multiplying and accumulating to form an impenetrable wall of twisting green.

 

“No! Wait! Don’t-”

 

Blink.

 

“Wait!”

 

And it’s gone. Everything.

 

“No! You son of a-!” His seals a hand over his mouth. Stiles bites on his hand and screams roughly, muffled.

 

A forest’s night like any other under the light of a waxing moon.

 

Falling to his knees, Stiles stares around and around. He hopes of summoning the ancient tree back- But he’s met with nothing, an accompaniment of a sylvan orchestra.

 

Spokój stands still, caught midstride.

 

“Spok,” he says, monotone. “I need you to make an air tunnel around us. Just enough to make sure my voice won’t carry.”

 

 _“Stiles?”_ Spokój’s voice is colored heavily with concern.

 

“Please.” Stiles’ form crumples, his forehead touching the earth and hands crossed over his neck. Eyes stare without sight and only his ears catch the sounds of Spokój meeting his request. A peripheral glance offers a not so clear view of the wind barrier. Using what little oxygen is left inside it, Stiles screams.

 

Spokój’s ears twitch, sensitive, but it's the only outward sign of his reproach at the pitch. His furred side tickling the hairs on his boy’s arms and his vulpine head resting over sweat-soaked, brunette hair.

 

The scream dies down, not by desire but by necessity.

 

“That’s enough.” Stiles croaks, a jagged whisper disappearing soon enough with the wind. Halted by the emptying of what limited oxygen had been left inside. He takes Spok and stands up, cradling the fox to his chest. In as normal a speaking voice as he can manage, he calls for a name exchanged in friendship and trust. He waits.

 

While the ground may not shake with every step, through the bond, both boy and familiar hear leaves rustling.

 

“You called for me, Sczczepan?” Treebeard asks as he appears from the foliage. His form walks hunched and tired, color like a deciduous living through the harshest of winters.  

****

Stray clouds drifting along to make shadows where open fields lie. Fat and full, the moon overlooks the night. Its gaze heavy as it looks down upon the forest below and its inhabitants therein.

 

Hiding behind one of the trees and hood over his head, Stiles peeks out --clad in red-- to observe the circle of thirteen women in supposed silence. He reaches a long-fingered hand to wrap around his throat and ducks behind the trunk of an oak. Soundlessly, his teeth flash white in the dark as he mouths a spell in tandem with Mandalei, Spokoj’s eyes shining a dual tone; the same for Neru but for the color of her own eyes.

 

Sound saturates the air.

 

Silent words carry sound, and the witches look to each other confused when long, low howls break through the forest.

 

The hunt begins.

 

Half-shifted, the only thing human eyes could catch is the blurry, glimpse of luminous blue and a humanoid form. Stiles keeps to his corner, as ordered by Talia, and watches.

 

One of Peter’s clawed and outstretched hand catches one of the women by the throat. Her halted scream a wet gurgle. He drags her body along and disappears into the darkness where fire’s light couldn’t reach. Stiles doesn’t blink, and he can’t muster that old feeling of disgust and aversion at the sight of life liquid spilt.

 

12

 

Screams and shrieks fill the wood. The witches’ circle broken. One of the women, young and teary, breaks away to chase after her sister. Adjacent to her, one of the other witches tries to grab for her arm. To leave the circle is to abandon the protection of the coven. Another witch shakes her head at their sister’s carelessness. They leave her to fate and ready themselves.

 

Stiles tilts his head in consideration and his eyes narrow. With his thumb, he brushes across Spok’s ear, a signal.

 

11

 

In the darkness of the woods, Stiles sees Freya’s golden eyes appear behind the one who’d broken away. The wayward witch’s shadow is felled and all human eyes could catch is the fleeting glimpse of braided copper hair.

 

No scream follows. Some of the witches having pinched faces and others looking to each other, for what good is prescience in the face of choice.

 

“Come together! Don’t leave the fire-” Yells one, but is interrupted by Neru’s grey wings swooping down and plucking the eyes out of the yelling witch.

 

Stiles watches her face: surprised, annoyed. But she doesn’t let herself scream. Immediately, he knows to keep an eye on her. Another signal.

 

One of the witches standing close by tosses the bird away at a motion of her hand, but the bird catches an updraft --it's wing in mid-fold-- allowing the it to escape smoothly into the canopy above. The same witch looks up and throws another hand at the branches trying to injure the bird.

 

With the women’s attention caught above, Lei Xia’s eyes shine an ombre red-gold (more orange). Her pony tail swinging as she takes the advantage to hook claws through a cheek.

 

The caught witch clamps her teeth down on the clawed fingers and pulls out a karambit, a knife shaped in a sharply curved half-moon. She swings at the wolf, aiming to gouge deep into its neck, but her motion was not fast enough to keep the wolf from dodging halfway through the attack-- the knife puncturing only a millimeter into the wolf’s neck.

 

Growling rough and saliva dripping, Lei Xia digs her claws deeper into the captured witch’s tongue.

 

The caught witch starts choking on her own blood. She struggles, hate heavy in her eyes. Bringing up her free hand, her nails grow to in length.

 

Her sisters move to help.

 

One of the women pulls up her sleeve, revealing an arm covered in runes. The symbols twist across her skin and a flick of her hands sends one of the runes, shaped like an arrow, flying at the she-wolf.  

 

Not unaware, the Lei Xia yanks out the captured tongue. Killing the witch, the she-wolf tries to escape unscathed, but the arrow pierces through her shoulder leaving behind a perfect circle where flesh should be. The she-wolf roars in fury and pain, but does not pause her retreat.

 

10

   

Left with one eye, the disabled witch cups her hands around the bleeding socket, red seeping through her fingers. Her agony is desperately silenced behind a grunt of sealed lips and gritted teeth. A breath and she starts to chant.

 

The coven comes together.

 

(Stiles bites the meat of his thumb, and thinks how convenient it might have been had the leader died first.)

 

Energy growing, and as one, each woman throws Mountain Ash into the air. As the powder falls, it forms a perfect circle around them. Barrier in place, they continue their first chant. Forest going silent the more they speak, green fireflies flicker like dying embers, revealed and hidden intermittently.

 

Stiles reaches out with both hands and pulls, one thumb bleeding freely.

 

The circle breaks and the Peter and Alastair jump into the fray, making the witches break formation. One of the witches dodges, pulling out her karambit—edges tipped black and dripping like ink. Behind her, the tattoed witch with arrows decorating her arms follows. The one-eyed leader looks at the two. The two break away to fight, while the coven turn their backs to continue their spell.

 

Blades and claws clash, neither side backing down.

 

Arrows flying out of her skin are dodged, as Alastair moves closer, golden-eyes shining. With her attention on Alastair, the witch does not notice Lei Xia creeping behind. Before Lei Xia can jump on the witch and claw through her neck, the witch’s arrows stop. The ink on her body manifests into black mid-length whips on each hand. Expertly, she swings arcs around her body in defensive motions. Alastair and Lei Xia turn to each other and they circle. Moving too close, Alastair catches one of the whips on his face, spikes suddenly shooting out at their tips. Aggravated he catches the spikes, uncaring of the pain, and yanks. Unbalancing the witch for a moment, Lei Xia digs her claws through the witch’s other hand and bites at the junction of her neck. When Lei Xia rips her teeth free, a chunk of shoulder and neck comes along followed by a combination of arterial spray and a leaking vein.

 

9

 

The witch fighting Peter only scratches the wolf’s skin a few times, but he begins to slow enough that the witch closes the distance between them. As the witch swings for the Peter’s neck, Stiles starts to stand up from his crouch until a ball of fire flies through the air. Not fast enough to dodge, the bladed witch’s hands are burned horribly, blackened and peeling. Her scream is cut off as Peter pounces at the burned witch. The sickening crack of vertebrae loud enough to falter the chanting witches.

 

8

 

A mouth full of fangs smiles tauntingly at the stunned silence, before Peter turns to the nearest witch and swipes his claws behind her knees. The witch’s form folds, but when he tries to dig his claws one more time to end her life, claws only catch cloth. A horde of what look like field mice appear from under the cloak. The mice climb all over the wolf, a multitude of small teeth enough to make a Were bleed. Scrambling, the Peter tries to throw off the mice but is being overcome by their endless numbers.

 

Lei Xia and Alastair move to help. But three witches break away to surround them.

 

Just as Peter seems to tire and retreat, Neru lets go a piercing shriek. Like a gale force wind, the shriek throws a sonic wave so strong that both mice and wolf are scattered. The wolf is the first to regain its bearings, and before the mice can come together, the grey bird spots a mouse separate from the rest based on the shine of intelligence in its eyes. The bird nosedives into the horde, eyes on the target. In one fell swoop, the bird flies up, the mouse scratching frantically at the clawed feet around its neck. As the bird flies away, it releases its catch, where it lands skewered neatly on a sharp branch.

 

While Peter’s eyes are caught on the morbid image for a moment, Alastair and Lei Xia put their backs against each other. The witches surrounding the two pull their hoods back, each revealing some distinct feature: stitches at the edge of a perpetually smiling mouth, giant needles in the skin of her arms, and a young face hiding terror in her eyes. Threads shoot out at Alastair, catching one wrist. When Lei Xia moves to attack, she’s met with a giant black needle tipped in some translucent liquid. She dodges a fatal blow but it grazes her. In the next moment, she stops and falls inexplicably but the witches are unsurprised.

 

The two gesture the third forward, but her steps are hesitant. As the third witch is about to touch the paralyzed wolf’s head, snakes rise up from beneath their feet. While their feet are suspended midjump, the snakes flash fang only to turn into vines and wrap around the witches ankles. Vines start pulling the three witches down, down, down, where the earth opens beneath their feet. Hands grapple at the sudden soft soil with little success, panic increasing as sink faster than quicksand and the fermentation above their heads starts to close into a tomb. One of the witches tosses one last thread upwards in hopes of catching a sturdy branch, but when she tugs, the branch snaps weakly.

 

5

 

In the midst of the burial, the three wolves injured in varying degrees retreat back, leaving the witches to continue. With Lei Xia paralyzed, Alastair drags her off to the tree line. A large set of five branches reach out to wrap around her form, taking her away. Peter turns his eyes to meet his sister’s Alpha red before they move on to Stiles’ dual-chromed sunset eyes shining eerie and mirrored by another set around the teenager’s neck. Blank faced, Peter turns to stare intensely at the sneering faces of the witches, their number dwindled to a handful. He tilts his neck to the side and down, like a dog seeing a smaller creature and thinking. Deciding, Peter steps forward as he bends and shifts his head, Alastair following behind him. With just a few feet before they reach the witches, the two betas roar loud, spittle flying from elongated fangs and spine bent to pounce.

 

Between them, the scarlet of an Alpha’s eyes moves forward. Coat of fur, as black as the night, and lengthened teeth, as white as the moon, steps forward. Every move of muscle and sinew is a controlled rage- Springing forward, she aims for the witch missing an eye.

 

The witches spread out and brace for the fight, some armed with blades while others conjure spells under hissed whispers and inked skin. And the one-eyed witch, blends back, hood pulled overhead, into the foliage.

 

As the beta wolves jump forward, their forms transition in midair from Were to wolf, sizes much larger than the normal. Their Alpha, coat in a glossy jet black, follows.

 

It’s a harsh struggle, neither side willing to back down but from his distance, Stiles can’t help but smirk at the confusion on the witches faces. Every hex they throw at the wolves starts out fatal only for it to fizzle into some powered down version, giving the wolves an obvious advantage.

 

A clawed hand swipes at a witch’s nape, gouging through skin, muscle, and bone.

 

3

 

Hand still cupped over her weeping eye-socket, the witch gestures one hand upwards: a broken tree branch follows soon after and impales the golden-eyed beta through the stomach.

 

Shocked, (Peter) the grey-bronze wolf and (Talia) the jet black wolf look to the witch smiling at them. Teeth a bright white framed by lips rouged in dried blood.  

 

Furious, Peter charges forward-

 

And the witches laugh at the predictability of a wild beast.

 

But the blue-eyed wolf feints forward, a move so telegraphed that allows him to dodge the now expected hex that awaited him. Escaping with an inch separating the patch of scorched earth and his foot, the blue-eyed wolf steps quick to grab one of the witches by the neck. Whether by fortune or some other, he misses by a hair. The whistle of a razor wind passing over his form shallowly, reopening the small cuts he’d received from a previous hex.

 

A form cloaked in grey appears but moments behind the wolf. Obvious in their position, the grey form reaches out an arm for the bird who’d aimed and gained an eye to perch. Hooded head lifting up, a dual tone of an the iris’ outer bearing a deep onyx while the center surrounding the pupil is a luminous magenta; doubled from a bird’s eyes.

 

When a deadly hex is thrown at the Alpha, the person in grey reaches out a hand to counter.

 

Lightning meets its match. A clap of thunder follows.

 

Worried for Mandalei, Stiles moves out from behind the tree’s cover. From his palms, flames dance wildly-- an ice blue center surrounded by lavender edged in orange. Long-fingered hands gesture his fingers in an inward motion before turns his hands palms down and flicks each hand.

 

The motion was too broad. It missed one but luckily catches another on a sleeve, flames exploding brilliantly. Frantic, the witch douses the fire before it could catch onto her.

 

Magic meets magic. Colors in varying shades and hues cancel one another, like a small firework bursting white at eye level.

 

All of the wolves but the Alpha step back.

 

Using her lone eye, the witch observes while her sisters fight. She sees the weakest and youngest power among their attackers. Hidden under the flashes of magic, she steps to the side. Dagger freed from a sheath on her belt, she steps close and throws it at the smaller figure in red.

 

“No!” From somewhere and nowhere, a half-shifted beta shoves the red, hooded form safe and away. Metal rips through flesh, a howling scream.

 

Shock. Silence.

 

When the same one-eyed witch reaches to pull the dagger out of the downed young, wolf-

 

Lightning dances at his fingertips. The winds howling around him, scarlet cloak in constant movement. Stiles folds his fingers in a circle, by his bidding the furious wind concentrates to afix itself around the head of the one-eyed witch. He brings her to kneel, struggling to breathe.  

Two witches toss out red hands, blood spray turning into hardened bullets.

 

To retreat is to live, and so two cloaked figures disperse into the dark.

 

The black wolf transforms into a woman, eyes still burning. “Hunt them down. Don’t let them leave the border, by any means necessary.” Blue and golden-red chase after the retreating forms. She moves to look down at the impaled beta, still breathing but shallowly. When she looks to the downed beta, her face crumples as only a mother could at the form of her injured son. From there her eyes turn to a blood, red hood. “Stiles,” eyes drawn to the choking witch, “don’t kill her.”

 

Tears running down his cheeks, Stiles’ expression torn between anger and sadness.

 

“Stiles,” the downed beta, only a boy, pleads. Jade green ever drawn to the other.

 

“Derek.” Anguished and surprised, Stiles drops to his knees before the boy. At the same time, his hold over the witch is released, but the grey figure --Mandalei-- takes over with her own suffocating wind, carrying some kind of petal; the one-eyed witch loses consciousness.

 

“You’re alive.”

 

“Y-Yeah, I-” Derek coughs, brow breaking out in a sweat. “Use your eyes, idio-” Another cough, this time more overwhelming. “I don’t f-feel okay.” He starts shaking, a sudden feverish state.

 

“Hold on.” Stiles begs.

 

Talia carefully pulls her younger brother up, Alastair’s form curled up in pain. “Try not to move, Al. I’ll take that out once we’ve got the right first aid.” Turning to the two Sparks, “Mandalei, Stiles.” An Alpha’s control, barely hiding the worry and fear for family. “I need you two to help me take them back to the house. Please.”

 

The two Sparks nod, each a burden to carry --one gladly, the other sadly.

 

 _“Spok.”_ Stiles asks and a small wind carries Derek’s form, steady. His steps are heavy the closer they move to the beacon of light the Hale house offers.

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Stiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Or not really. This was a long time coming... or was it? *hehehehe* (insert evil laugh)

_“G’morning, Stiles!”_

 

_A eleven-year old Stiles lifts his head up at the greeting and isn’t surprised to see Derek waving at him. He waves back. “Morning, Derek.”_

 

_The sunny smile on twelve-year old Derek’s face is blinding, so much so that Stiles can’t help but turn his eyes away. He misses Derek’s smile falter for a second, but he doesn’t miss when said boy sits on the only seat next to him. Stiles had picked the desk all the way in the back corner and near the windows to avoid the others, but._

 

_“Hey, so your birthday’s coming up.” Derek comments, sheepish._

 

_Stiles brings his head up not unlike a puppy that had just seen a squirrel. “You know my birthday?”_

 

_“Um, yeah.” Derek shrugs as if he hadn’t made sure to check with Miss Claud. “You know mine, right?” He asks, a little hopefully._

 

_“Of course, I do. Kinda hard to forget since it’s on a major holiday.” Stiles teases, a small smile on his lips._

 

_Derek blushes and tugs on the bottom edge of his shirt. “So, have you got any plans this weekend?”_

 

_Taking a minute to think, Stiles says: “Not as far as I know, no. What’s up?”_

 

_“I was wondering if maybe you wanna hang out on Saturday?”_

 

_The teacher walks into the room, and Stiles responds absently: “Sure.”_

 

_On Friday, Derek checks with Stiles and asks if he’s still free. Stiles nods and asks what Derek had in mind. Derek tells Stiles it’s a surprise._

 

_“Okay, dude. I’m here.” Stiles rests his hands on his hips, a maroon t-shirt and dark green shorts._

 

_Derek, luminous smile in place, takes Stiles’ arm and says: “You like the woods, right?”_

 

_Stiles lets himself be pulled along and only looks back once to see his mom and Talia looking back at them, indulgent smiles on their faces. He fights not to make his own face, because his mom will no doubt scold him if she sees._

 

_“And by woods you mean your backyard?” Stiles asks, attention caught not by the trees but by the scatter of toys and bikes strewn around what had been Laura’s grave._

 

_“Hey, Derek.” A voice interrupts them. “Don’t go too far in the woods, okay?”_

 

_The two turn to the source and see a seventeen-year old Laura dressed in a mesh-shirt and ripped, black pants._

 

_Derek sighs the sigh of every younger sibling who’s ever been lectured by their elder. “We won’t. Bye!” He continues moving forward._

 

_“Hi, Stiles.” Laura smirks at the stunned boy._

 

_Stiles nods and waves back._

 

_The two talk idly, when Derek asks: “Are you excited?”_

 

_“About what?”_

 

_“Turning twelve, duh.” Derek enthuses, as he walks backwards to be face to face with Stiles._

 

_Stiles tries not to be impressed, but the fact that the young wolf hadn’t tripped over the rocks and branches littered all over the ground is… impressive. He shrugs in answer. “Meh. I mean, did you feel any different when you turned twelve?”_

 

_Derek stops to think but his heel catches on the smooth surface of a rock. His arms pinwheel once, before his hand is caught._

 

_“Careful, dude.” Stiles braces his feet and pulls Derek up slowly._

 

_“Thanks.” Derek smiles wide. When he turns around, his excitement ratchets up to the confusion of Stiles. “Oh! Wait here.” He looks back to check that Stiles hasn’t moved. “And close your eyes.” When Stiles rolls his eyes at him, he adds: “Please?”_

 

****

 

His eyelids flutter two, three more times, feeling heavy. Eyes barely open, the first thing he sees is the blurry vision of a cream-colored ceiling. A memory of Cora fighting with DJ supersedes the image, the first time he’d tried to get between the two it ended with him on his back, the wind knocked out of him, and the same vision, but.

 

He groans.

 

The ache in his stomach is harder to ignore, now that he’s awake. When he tries to get a hand under him to sit up, the other one is caught.

 

Stiles is holding his other hand, slumped over with tears trailing down his cheeks despite closed eyes, exhausted. Spokój loosely draped around his shoulders--his black eyes open and staring at the teenage wolf, while his body is uncoiled.

 

Derek croaks out, “Stiles.”

 

Stiles startles and jumps in his seat, his hand just squeezing Derek’s a little tighter. “Derek! Ugh my-” He uses his other hand to muffle a choked sob. “H-hold- Hold on. Okay? Let me get your mom.” Just as he moves to push his chair back to stand, the grip on his own hand stops him. “Dude, you need-”

 

“Don’t call me dude, dude.” Derek sasses, voice as hoarse as if he’d swallowed gravel.

 

A helpless laugh escapes him. “Ha-ha. You’re hilarious.” Try as he might, Stiles’ voice shakes at the last word before more tears fall. He brings his head down to rest next to Derek’s stomach. Clutching one hand on the blanket covering Derek, he tries to pull his other hand away from the other’s grip but tug as he might, Derek won’t let go.

 

Like a deer in headlights, Derek sits paralyzed and looks on at the younger’s crying form. Carefully, he sits up and further intertwines their joined hands. “Stiles?”

 

Old memories assault his mind. A clawed hand holding Derek by his spine, and his bleeding body crumpling against the side of the school wall. Derek telling him to run as he fights his own uncle at the hospital. Derek being used by Scott to turn Gerard. Derek, an Alpha, who’s form had seemed larger than life, kneeling and mourning before a downed Pack member. An arrow meant for one heart finding another, followed by a tenor obscured by blood saying: “ _Stiles, run.”_ He sobs for the man he left behind, and cries for the boy who can't seem to shake off the inevitability of his fate, no matter how much he tries to keep him away from it. When he feels an arm pull him closer to a bandaged torso, he breathes deep the scent of woods hidden past blood, sweat, and his own tears. Stiles buries his nose in the bandaged torso and says something, but his voice is muffled.

 

“What?” Derek cradles the slightly dirty head, picking out a leaf or two. The fact that his friend was so worried to not even fix his appearance before waiting for him to wake up just makes him smile. “Stiles, I can't hear you if your hiding your face in my chest.”

 

The brunette sniffles and subconsciously nuzzles the hand on his head, lupine. He grabs a tissue from the little table next to the bed. Still muffled, he says: “I asked you to stay away.”

 

“You asked me-” Derek’s eyes darken, understanding. “You did.” He tenses anticipating a lashing out.

 

He’s close enough that he can see Derek’s change of posture, and honey-brown eyes glance up to meet grassy-green. “This is why.” Stiles whispers. Other hand reaching out for the bandage covering the wound, while the other one only keeps a grip on Derek’s hand. “I asked you to stay away. And this is why.” His eyes focus on the bandaged torso, refusing to look back at the sets of green staring right at him.

 

Thick eyebrows furrow and forest green transitions into gold. “How stupid can you be?” Derek retorts, vehement.

 

Stiles flinches and begins to remove himself, only to be impeded by the steady grip on his hand.

 

“I get that what you’re best at, especially when it comes to me, is to run away. No-” Derek interrupts when Stiles starts to speak. “You’re going to listen to me. Nod, if you are.”

 

Stiles nods, his hand gripping the other’s tighter while his other hand is trapped on Derek’s bandaged torso.

 

Leaning forward, despite the aching pain still present on his chest, Derek makes sure their eyes are level. Sun-gold facing honeyed-chocolate. “I don’t need your protection.”

 

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but a raised brow cuts him off before he can make a sound.

 

“You. Do not. Need. To protect. Me.” Derek rest his forehead gently on Stiles’. “Pretty sure this--” his free hand rests lightly on his torso “--bandage on my chest proves it. That and the fact that you need more protection than I do.” Pressing closer, the point of their noses practically touching. “Now, let me get this straight.” He glares, fangs lengthening enough to be seen without obstructing his speech. “You’ve been treating me like shit.”

 

Stiles flinches, but the hold Derek has on him won’t let him shift even a centimeter away.

 

“Basically acting like a giant dick to me since junior high. Lying to me and brushing me off every time I so much as try to breathe the same air as you. Try to say a few words to you-” His voice rising incrementally, before he pauses. Taking a breath and, in a whisper: “All because you’re trying to protect me? ‘For my own good’!”  On the last sentence, his cadence mimics Stiles’ when the younger last said the same phrase to him.

 

Stiles turns his eyes down, no smart response or justification he can offer in light of the cruelty he’d thought was so benign and necessary at the time.

 

“Stiles.” Derek reaches up to catch Stiles’ chin. He can hide the grunt of pain but not the jump in muscle.

 

“Derek, take it easy.” Stiles moves to get up. “I need to get your mom-”

 

“No!” Derek grunts. “I'm not letting you go. Not again, dammit. Or do I have to end up bloody for you to even willingly stay alone with me?”

 

“What are you-”

 

“Please,” The hold he has on Stiles turns bruising. “Stiles, please.” Derek pleads, eyes molten, claws lengthened, and face contorted --a flicker of his beta form, there and gone. A sheen of sweat obvious on his forehead.

 

“Okay, okay. I’m sitting. Just-” Stiles grabs a clean washcloth with his freehand and dabs lightly over Derek’s face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

A deprecating laugh is released. Green eyes close when the small towel passes over. “I want to believe you.” Derek gives Stiles a broken smile when the other boy presses the towel over his neck. “Stiles, I _want_ to believe you, so much. But--” Derek loosens his grip, still circled entirely around the younger’s forearm. “Every time I let you go, I just end up chasing after you, making sure you’re not gonna get beat up or killed.” He raises his brows pointedly.

 

Lips pursing, Stiles takes the towel away and dumps it to the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry.” At the other’s growing frown, he put a free hand directly on where the furrow appears. “I mean it, okay. I’m really sorry, and I know an apology isn’t going to fix--” He gestures widely, mouth downturned.

 

Derek has a hard time not looking at the heavy pout on the other’s lips, but he stays strong. The pointy index finger on his face doesn’t even phase him, at all. “You just gestured to all of me.”

 

“I was gesturing to the situation and the shitty shitty thing I put you through- Have been putting  you through.” Stiles says, frustrated.

 

“Say it.”

 

“Oh come-”

 

“Stiles.” Derek growls.

 

Stiles scowls. “Don’t growl at me, no brow.”

 

Derek gapes. “Wow,” he says deadpan, “-- you sound really sorry.”

 

A scoff and a roll of honey-brown eyes. Stiles holds one of Derek’s hands. “I fucked up. I treated you like a giant asshole. You didn’t deserve any of it. I let my fears influence my judgement. All those times I kept pushing you away and just acting like a grade-A asshole. I am really, really, _really_ sorry. I’m…”

 

Derek rolls his eyes. "There's gotta be more than the obvious. We both know you're an asshole." 

 

Stiles wrinkles his nose but doesn't argue the point. "What more is there?" At this he purposely keeps his eyes centered on piercing green, not letting his heart betray him. But all he sees back is Derek staring at him with a look he can’t decipher. He licks his lips and can’t help but squint his eyes when Derek’s attention shifts away then back to him. “What? What is it? Did I miss something?”

 

Derek stares at him. Quietly to himself, he sighs and accepts this is as much of a step forward as he's ever gotten from the younger boy. Derek tells himself to be patient and dons a confident smirk to cover his inner thoughts. With a raised brow, he says: “Are you done? Was that all?”

 

“That’s what I’m asking you-”

 

“So you’re not gonna mention the years and years and _years_ of assholery?” Derek states, smug.

 

“I was getting to that. Your face was doing a weird-” Stiles gestures, nonsensically. “-thing.”

 

“A weird thing.” Derek repeats, toneless. “And you’re not just trying to get away from your apology.”

 

“Dude, I mean it when I’m sorry.” Stiles takes the hand in his to rest on his collarbones. “I know you can hear it, wolfboy.”

 

Derek eyes glance once at where his hand rests, just an inch below Stiles' neck. “Okay, fine. I hear that you’re sorry, but is that supposed to help me feel better after everything?” He scowls heavily and leaves his hand on Stiles when the younger lets go.

 

Stiles bites his lip, unsure. “I-I wasn’t…” His eyes shine wetly. He takes a shaky breath. “Derek. I don’t- What do you want from me, man? An apology isn’t enough--”

 

“No, an apology is nowhere close enough, Stiles.” Derek’s voice shakes and his eyes shine gold. “Everytime, I tried to-to…” He sighs and shakes his head. Gold holds honey captive. “I don’t care if this sounds stupid--”

 

“Dude--”

 

“No! You said you’re listening.” Derek pulls Stiles closer by the hand. Their faces inches from each other. “You lied to me. You hurt me. I thought we were friends, but the way you acted-- And I still kept trying to--” Eyes closing, pained. He leans forward and rests his head on Stiles’ for just a second before he pulls away. A breath whooshes out of his chest, unsteady. “I’m- I should be done. I am. Done.” He lets go, reluctant but determined, and ignores the stunned face confronting him. “I’m sorry I bothered you and tried to be your friend when you didn’t want to be. I’ll--”  

 

“No! No, no, no. Derek.” Stiles scrambles for the hand leaving him. “Wait, okay. I screwed up, but--”

 

“But what, Stiles?” Derek says tiredly. “Your just gonna make decisions for me, whenever you think it’s for my own good? Your gonna lie to my face, again and again as long as it’s to keep me safe like some stupid little kid.”

 

“Derek, you weren’t involved in any of this. You weren’t supposed to be.”

 

“No, but my family is.”

 

“Your family didn’t tell everyone for a reason.”

  
“And I thought you were _my_ friend. I kept follo- trying to talk to you and be friends with you, because you were the first person I had to myself. Where we didn’t have Pack stuff looming over our relationship. I wanted… I wanted you to be my friend, but I don’t wanna keep playing second to my family. I don’t want to be an afterthought.” On the last sentence, Derek's voice breaks into a harsh whisper. 

 

“You aren’t! Not to me.” Stiles steadies the gaze between them. “Why do you think I kept trying to push you away everytime?”

 

Derek, glowers. “I don’t know, Stiles, how is a guy supposed to react to being pushed away and being run away from?”

 

Stiles tilts one side of his mouth up to grin. “Most people would walk away. You, on the other hand, just kept pushing back. You did this.” He points to the bandaged torso. “You saved my life.”

 

Pink suffuses his cheeks, warm. A scowl mars his face but Derek can’t hide his blush. “I wasn’t going to let you die, even if you are an asshole.”

 

“Guess assholes can recognize each other.”

 

“And what’s that supposed to mean.” Derek answers deadpan. 

 

“It means us assholes gotta stick together.” Stiles answers, tentatively.

 

Derek raises a single brow, skeptical. “Really.”

 

“Yeah, really.” Stiles doesn't have a high horse to stand on, but he broke down in front of him once already. He doesn't want to do that again. It's obvious that keeping Derek safe will take more than pushing the other way.

 

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Derek whispers. Sheer stubbornness kept him chasing after this boy, and just when he finally talks it out. When he realizes that there’s sense to be heard in Stiles’ argument. Backing off and away is the last thing he wants to do, actually. But.

 

“It means I’ll stop pushing you away.” Stiles interlaces their fingers. “I messed up--”

 

“And this is you cleaning up your mess.” Derek uses his free hand to wave at himself on the last word.

 

“Stop fishing for compliments. We both know who the real ‘mess’ actually is.” Stiles waves at himself.

 

“As long as you know.” Derek answers, eyes widened in emphasis. He doesn’t flinch at the light punch on his shoulder. “That felt like a feather.” Every rejoinder he makes is thought out, not immediate. When he breaks, he’ll do it when he knows Stiles will hold him up just the same as he did for him. And he knows for a fact that it's not now. Maybe it's stupid to be hopeful. More wolf than sense, and his wolf is as loyal as the animal is known for. It calls Stiles his and he doesn't know why. If Stiles leaves him, he won’t break. But he’ll be adrift, an anchor-less boat, a puzzle missing a piece, a wolf missing-

 

Stiles gestures for a breeze to blow at Derek’s face. “Didja feel that?”

 

The teen wolf coughs, smiling. “Yeah, I did.” He tilts his head, like a puppy, subconsciously. “Is that supposed to mean what I think it does?”

 

“I dunno. What do you think it means?”

 

Derek’s face turns serious. “No more turning me away. No more lying.” Even as he says this, he’s got a feeling that Stiles will keep to his loopholes, but he’ll take what he can get. He didn't say so, because he’s using the same if slightly different loopholes. Stiles’ confession was true, his heart said so. But Derek has been watching, observing. He doesn't know everything about Stiles, but he knows enough not to give everything, even if he knows that when he does, Stiles will do the same. Derek is a wolf, and wolves are smart when they corner their prey. This hunt will be hard because he’s alone, but the run will be all the better for it.

 

Stiles nods. “I can do that.” He can do that. Will he? That's a question he’s already got his answers to.

 

“And you have to hang out with me whenever I want.” Keep him close. His wolf growls, suspicious of his seemingly agreeable prey.

 

“Ugh, no. I’ve got my own schedule, dude.”

 

“Fine, within reason.” His wolf practically salivates at the promised challenge and the reluctant submission. Derek levels a flat look at the younger boy. “But you have to come to watch me during practice, when you can.” He amends when he sees Stiles move to protest. “And come to my games. If you really want to, ya know.” Shrugging his shoulder, he winces.

 

“Geez, I tell you to take it easy and you do the opposite.” Stiles dips his hand in the mildly damp towel and uses the water to cool his hand. “Stubborn, no brow.” He rests his hand on the injured area, acting like an icepack.

 

“Says the guy who’s more stubborn than an ass.” Derek quips and relaxes back. 

 

Stiles hums. He fluffs the pillow under Derek’s neck, his other hand still an acting ice pack-- he can't really maintain it for long, otherwise his own fingers turn blue.

 

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

 

The confession whispered intimately between them pulls Stiles inevitably. It's a promise he made to himself already, but it begs repeating, reinforcing. “Thanks. I… I’m glad you’re okay, too.” This Derek will live happy with his family, his Pack.

 

Honey catches green-gold, a sylvan filigree drowning in amber. Nothing was fixed because nothing was broken. But it was a start of something. Something where two hands joined, carrying more than any one person could. Each free hand left waiting for the day they too would come together.

 

Three knocks fall on the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to comment, kudos, etc. (They're really motivational.)


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